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TORONTO 


MEN,    WOMEN 

AND 

GHOSTS 


BY 

AMY  LOWELL 

AUTHOR  OF 

"A  DOME  OF  MANY-COLOURED  GLASS' 

"  SWORD  BLADES  AND  POPPY  SEED" 

"Six  FRENCH  POETS" 


gork 
THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

1917 

All  rights  reserved 


Copyright,  1914,  by  Harriet  Monroe. 

Copyright,  1915,  by  The-  Century.  Ccmpany,  by  The  Yale  Pub 
lishing  Association.  Inc.,  by  The  Republic  Publishing  Company, 
Inc.,  by  Harriet  Monroe,  and  by  Margaret  C.  Anderson. 

Copyright,  1916,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  by  William  Marion 
Reedy,  by  Harriet  Monroe,  by  The  Independent  Publishing  Com 
pany,  by  The  Poetry  Review  Company,  by  The  Masses  Publishing 
Company,  by  The  Four  Seas  Company,  and  by  Margaret  C.  Ander- 


COPYBIGHT,    1916, 

BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  October,  1916. 
Reprinted  November,  1916;  February,  1917. 


J.  S.  Gushing  Co.  —Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


ft  1 7 


" '.  .  .  See  small  portions  of  the   Eternal   World  that  ever 
groweth' : 

So  sang  a  Fairy,  mocking,  as  he  sat  on  a  streak 'd  tulip, 

Thinking  none  saw  him :    when  he  ceas'd  I  started  from  the 
trees, 

And  caught  him  in  my  hat,  as  boys  knock  down  a  butterfly." 
William  Blake.     "  EUROPE.    A  Prophecy." 

Thou  hast  a  lap  full  of  seed, 
And  this  is  a  fine  country. 

William  Blake. 


54451  * 


PREFACE 

THIS  is  a  book  of  stories.  For  that  reason  I 
have  excluded  all  purely  lyrical  poems.  But 
the  word  "stories"  has  been  stretched  to  its 
fullest  application.  It  includes  both  narrative 
poems,  properly  so  called;  tales  divided  into 
scenes ;  and  a  few  pieces  of  less  obvious  story 
telling  import  in  which  one  might  say  that  the 
dramatis  persona  are  air,  clouds,  trees,  houses, 
streets,  and  such  like  things. 

It  has  long  been  a  favourite  idea  of  mine  that 
the  rhythms  of  vers  libre  have  not  been  suffi 
ciently  plumbed,  that  there  is  in  them  a  power  of 
variation  which  has  never  yet  been  brought  to 
the  light  of  experiment.  I  think  it  was  the 
piano  pieces  of  Debussy,  with  their  strange  like 
ness  to  short  vers  libre  poems,  which  first-  showed 
me  the  close  kinship  of  music  and  poetry,  and 


Vlll  PREFACE 

there  flashed  into  my  mind  the  idea  of  using  the 
movement  of  poetry  in  somewhat  the  same  way 
that  the  musician  uses  the  movement  of  music. 

It  was  quite  evident  that  this  could  never  be 
done  in  the  strict  pattern  of  a  metrical  form,  but 
the  flowing,  fluctuating  rhythm  of  vers  libre 
seemed  to  open  the  door  to  such  an  experiment. 
First,  however,  I  considered  the  same  method 
as  applied  to  the  more  pronounced  movements  of 
natural  objects.  If  the  reader  will  turn  to  the 
poem,  "A  Roxbury  Garden,"  he  will  find  in  the 
first  two  sections  an  attempt  to  give  the  circular 
movement  of  a  hoop  bowling  along  the  ground, 
and  the  up  and  down,  elliptical  curve  of  a  flying 
shuttlecock. 

From  these  experiments,  it  is  but  a  step  to  the 
flowing  rhythm  of  music.  In  "The  Cremona 
Violin,"  I  have  tried  to  give  this  flowing,  chang 
ing  rhythm  to  the  parts  in  which  the  violin  is 
being  played.  The  effect  is  farther  heightened, 
because  the  rest  of  the  poem  is  written  in  the 


PREFACE  IX 

seven  line  Chaucerian  stanza ;  and,  by  deserting 
this  ordered  pattern  for  the  undulating  line  of 
vers  libre,  I  hoped  to  produce  something  of  the 
suave,  continuous  tone  of  a  violin.  Again, 
in  the  violin  parts  themselves,  the  movement 
constantly  changes,  as  will  be  quite  plain  to 
any  one  reading  these  passages  aloud. 

In  "The  Cremona  Violin,"  however,  the 
rhythms  are  fairly  obvious  and  regular.  I  set 
myself  a  far  harder  task  in  trying  to  tran 
scribe  the  various  movements  of  Stravinsky's 
"Three  Pieces  'Grotesques/  for  String  Quartet." 
Several  musicians,  who  have  seen  the  poem, 
think  the  movement  accurately  given. 

These  experiments  lead  me  to  believe  that 
there  is  here  much  food  for  thought  and  matter 
for  study,  and  I  hope  many  poets  will  follow 
me  in  opening  up  the  still  hardly  explored 
possibilities  of  vers  libre. 

A  good  many  of  the  poems  in  this  book  are 
written  in  "polyphonic  prose."  A  form  about 


X  PREFACE 

which  I  have  written  and  spoken  so  much  that 
it  seems  hardly  necessary  to  explain  it  here. 
Let  me  hastily  add,  however,  that  the  word 
"prose"  in  its  name  refers  only  to  the  typo 
graphical  arrangement,  for  in  no  sense  is  this  a 
prose  form.  Only  read  it  aloud,  Gentle  Reader, 
I  beg,  and  you  will  see  what  you  will  see.  For 
a  purely  dramatic  form,  I  know  none  better  in 
the  whole  range  of  poetry.  It  enables  the  poet 
to  give  his  characters  the  vivid,  real  effect  they 
have  in  a  play,  while  at  the  same  time  writing 
in  the  d£cor. 

One  last  innovation  I  have  still  to  mention. 
It  will  be  found  in  "Spring  Day,"  and  more 
fully  enlarged  upon  in  the  series,  "Towns  in 
Colour."  In  these  poems,  I  have  endeavoured  to 
give  the  colour,  and  light,  and  shade,  of  certain 
places  and  hours,  stressing  the  purely  pictorial 
effect,  and  with  little  or  no  reference  to  any 
other  aspect  of  the  places  described.  It  is  an 
enchanting  thing  to  wander  through  a  city 


PREFACE  XI 

looking  for  its  unrelated  beauty,  the  beauty  by 
which  it  captivates  the  sensuous  sense  of  seeing. 

I  have  always  loved  aquariums,  but  for  years 
I  went  to  them  and  looked,  and  looked,  at  those 
swirling,  shooting,  looping  patterns  of  fish, 
which  always  defied  transcription  to  paper  until 
I  hit  upon  the  "  unrelated  "  method.  The  result 
is  in  "An  Aquarium."  I  think  the  first  thing 
which  turned  me  in  this  direction  was  John 
Gould  Fletcher's  "London  Excursion,"  in  "Some 
Imagist  Poets."  I  here  record  my  thanks. 

For  the  substance  of  the  poems  —  why,  the 
poems  are  here.  No  one  writing  to-day  can 
fail  to  be  affected  by  the  great  war  raging  in 
Europe  at  this  time.  We  are  too  near  it  to  do 
more  than  touch  upon  it.  But,  obliquely,  it 
is  suggested  in  many  of  these  poems,  most 
notably  those  in  the  section,  "Bronze  Tablets." 
The  Napoleonic  Era  is  an  epic  subject,  and 
waits  a  great  epic  poet.  I  have  only  been  able 
to  open  a  few  windows  upon  it  here  and  there. 


Xll  PREFACE 

But  the  scene  from  the  windows  is  authentic, 
and  the  watcher  has  used  eyes,  and  ears,  and 
heart,  in  watching. 

AMY  LOWELL 

JULY  10,  1916. 


CONTENTS 

FIGURINES   IN    OLD    SAXE 

PATTERNS     

* 
PICKTHORN  MANOR      . 10 

THE  CREMONA  VIOLIN .55 

THE  CROSS-ROADS 113 

A  ROXBURY  GARDEN 122 

1777 145 

BRONZE   TABLETS 

THE  FRUIT  SHOP 159*"""" 

MALMAISON .        .     168 

THE  HAMMERS 184 

Two  TRAVELLERS  IN  THE  PLACE  VENDOME       .         .218 

WAR    PICTURES 

THE  ALLIES 225 

THE  BOMBARDMENT  ...    228 


XIV  CONTENTS 

LEAD  SOLDIERS    ........  234 

THE  PAINTER  ON  SILK        .         .         .         .         .         .  243 

A  BALLAD  OF  FOOTMEN                                                  ,  245 


THE    OVERGROWN   PASTURE 

REAPING 253 

OFF  THE  TURNPIKE     .......  260 

THE  GROCERY 275 

NUMBER  3  ON  THE  DOCKET 286 

CLOCKS   TICK   A   CENTURY 

NIGHTMARE:    A  TALE  FOR  AN  AUTUMN  EVENING     .  301 

THE  PAPER  WINDMILL 311 

THE  RED  LACQUER  MUSIC-STAND       .        .        .        .318 

SPRING  DAY 330 

THE  DINNER-PARTY 338 

STRAVINSKY'S    THREE    PIECES   "GROTESQUES,"    FOR 

STRING  QUARTET    .......  342 


CONTENTS  XV 

TOWNS  IN  COLOUR: 

RED  SLIPPERS 348 

THOMPSON'S    LUNCH    ROOM  —  GRAND    CENTRAL 

STATION         .......     351 

AN  OPERA  HOUSE '    •     354 

AFTERNOON  RAIN  IN  STATE  STREET    .         .         .     357 
AN  AQUARIUM       .......    360 

Thanks  are  due  to  the  editors  of  The,  Century,  Scribner's,  The  Yale 
Review,  The  New  Republic,,  Poetry,  The  Poetry  Review,  The  Poetry 
Journal,  The  Independent,  Reedy' 8  Mirror,  The  Ma^es,  The  Little 
Review,  The  Boston  Transcript,  and  The  Egoist,  London,  for  their 
courteous  permission  to  reprint  certain  of  these  poems  which  have  been 
copyrighted  by  them. 

The  two  sea  songs  quoted  in  "The  Hammers  "  are  taken  from 
Songs:  Naval  and  Nautical,  of  the  late  Charles  Dibdin,  London, 
John  Murray,  1841.  The  "  Hanging  Johnny  "  refrain,  in  "  The  Cremona 
Violin,"  is  borrowed  from  the  old,  well-known  chanty  of  that  name. 


FIGURINES  IN  OLD  SAXE 


j          PATTERNS 

I  WALK  down  the  garden  paths, 

And  all  the  daffodils 

Are  blowing,  and  the  bright  blue  squills . 

I  walk  down  the  patterned  garden-paths 

In  my  stiff,  brocaded  gown. 

With  my  powdered  hair  and  jewelled  fan, 

I  too  am  a  rare 

Pattern.  <  As  I  wander  down 

i 

The  garden  paths. 

_>* 

My  dress  is  richly  figured, 
And  the  train 

Makes  a  pink  and  silver  stain 
On  the  gravel,  and  the  thrift 
Of  the  borders. 

\  , 


4-  MEN,    \\OMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

Just  a  plate  of  current  fashion, 
Tripping  by  in  high-heeled,  ribboned  shoes. 
Not  a  softness  anywhere  about  me, 
whalebone  and  brocade. 


And  I  sink  on  a  seat  in  the  shade 
Of  a  lime  tree.     For  my  passion 
Wars  against  the  stiff  brocade. 
The  daffodils  and  squills 

in  the  breeze 
As  they  please. 
And  I  weep ; 

For  the  lime-tree  is  in  blossom 
And  one  small  flower  has  dropped  upon  my  bosom. 

And  the  plashing  of  waterdrops 
In  the  marble  fountain 
Comes  down  the  garden-paths. 
The  dripping  never  stops. 
Underneath  my  stiffened  gown 


! 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  5 

Is  the  softness  of  a  woman  bathing  in  a  marble  basin, 
A  basin  in  the  midst  of  hedges  grown 
So  thick,  she  cannot  see  her  lover  hiding, 
But  she  guesses  he  is  near, 

nd  the  sliding  of  the  water 
Bfeeems  the  stroking  of  a  dear 
Hand  upon  her. 

What  is  Summer  in  a  fine  brocaded  gown ! 
I  should  like  to  see  it  lying  in  a  heap  upon  the  ground. 

All  the  pink  and  silver  crumpled  up  on  the  ground. 

/ 

I  would  be  the  pink  and  silver  as  I  ran  along  the  paths, 

And  he  would  stumble  afterl 

Bewildered  by  my  laughter^ 

I  should  see  the  sun  flashing   from   his   sword-hilt 

and  the  buckles  on  his  shoes. 
I  would  choose 

To  lead  him  in  a  maze  along  the  patterned  paths, 
A  bright  and  laughing  maze  for  my  heavy-booted  lover. 


6  MEN,    WOMEN   AND   GHOSTS 

Till  he  caught  me  in  the  shade, 

And  the  buttons  of  his  waistcoat  bruised  my  body 
as  he  clasped  me, 

Aching,  melting,  unafraid. 

NjyWith  the  shadows  of  the  leaves  and  the  sundrops, 
W     And  the  plojDpingjpf  the  waterdrops, 

All  about  us  in  the  open  afternoon  — 
(  I  am  very  like  to  swoon 

With  the  weight  of  this  brocade, 

For  the  sun  sifts  through  the  shade. 

*/ 

Underneath  the  fallen  blossom 

In  my  bosom, 

Is  a  letter  I  have  hid. 

It  was  brought  to  me  this  morning  by  a  rider  from 

the  Duke. 

"  Madam,  we  regret  to  inform  you  that  Lord  Hartwell 
Died  in  action  Thursday  se'nnight." 
As  I  read  it  in  the  white,  morning  sunlight, 

r"     • 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  7 

The  letters  squirmed  like  snakes. 

"Any  answer,  Madam,"  said  my  footman. 

"No,"  I  told  him. 
i 

wSee  that  the  messenger  takes  some  refreshment. 
/-  No,  no  answer." 
And  I  walked  into  the  garden, 
Up  and  down  the  patterned  paths, 
In  my  stiff,  correct  brocade. 

The  blue  and  yellow  flowers  stood  up  proudly  in  the 
sun, 

Baeh-one. 

•  *" 

I  stood  upright  too, 

Held  rigid  to  the  pattern 
By  the  stiffness  of  my  gown. 
Up  and  down  I  walked, 
Up  and  down. 

In  a  month  he  would  have  been  my  husband. 
In  a  month,  here,  underneath  this  lime, 


8  MEN,    WOMEN   AND   GHOSTS 

We  would  have  broke  the  pattern ; 

He  for  me,  and  I  for  him, 

He  as  Colonel,  I  as  Lady, 

On  this  shady  seat. 

He  had  a  whim 

That  sunlight  carried  blessing. 

And  I  answered,  "It  shall  be  as  you  have  said." 

Now  he  is  dead. 

• 
In  Summer  and  in  Winter  I  shall  walk 

Up  and  down 

The  patterned  garden-paths 

In  my  stiff,  brocaded  gown. 

The  squills  and  daffodils 

Will  give  place  to  pillared  roses,  and  to  asters,  and 

to  snow. 
I  shall  go 
Up  and  down, 
In  my  gown. 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  9 

Gorgeously  arrayed, 

Boned  and  stayed. 

And  the  softness  of  my  body  will  be  guarded  from 

embrace 

By  each  button,  hook,  and  lace. 
For  the  man  who  should  loose  me  is  dead, 
Fighting  with  the  Duke  in  Flanders, 
In  a  pattern  called  a  war. 
Christ ! '   What  are  patterns  for  ? 


.    .  .   "  -   . 


10  MEN,   WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS 


PICKTHORN  MANOR 

I 

i 

How  fresh  the  Dartle's  little  waves  that  day ! 

A  steely  silver,  underlined  with  blue, 
And  flashing  where  the  round  clouds,  blown  away, 

Let  drop  the  yellow  sunshine  to  gleam  through 
And  tip  the  edges  of  the  waves  with  shifts 
And  spots  of  whitest  fire,  hard  like  gems 

Cut  from  the  midnight  moon  they  were,  and 

sharp 

As  wind  through  leafless  stems. 
The  Lady  Eunice  walked  between  the  drifts 
Of  blooming  cherry-trees,  and  watched  the  rifts 

Of  clouds  drawn  through  the  river's  azure  warp. 


MEN,   WOMEN  AND   GHOSTS  11 

II 

Her  little  feet  tapped  softly  down  the  path. 

Her  soul  was  listless ;  even  the  morning  breeze 
Fluttering  the  trees  and  strewing  a  light  swath 

Of  fallen  petals  on  the  grass,  could  please 
Her  not  at  all.     She  brushed  a  hair  aside 

With  a  swift  move,  and  a  half-angry  frown. 
She  stopped  to  pull  a  daffodil  or  two, 

And  held  them  to  her  gown 
To  test  the  colours ;  put  them  at  her  side, 
Then  at  her  breast,  then  loosened  them  and  tried  . 
Some  new  arrangement,  but  it  would  not  do. 

Ill 

A  lady  in  a  Manor-house,  alone, 

Whose  husband  is  in  Flanders  with  the  Duke 

• 

Of  Marlborough  and  Prince  Eugene,  she's  grown 
Too  apathetic  even  to  rebuke 


12  MEN,    WOMEN  AND   GHOSTS 

Her  idleness.     What  is  she  on  this  Earth  ? 
No  woman  surely,  since  she  neither  can 

Be  wed  nor  single,  must  not  let  her  mind 
Build  thoughts  upon  a  man 
Except  for  hers.     Indeed  that  were  no  dearth 
Were  her  Lord  here,  for  well  she  knew  his  worth, 

And  when  she  thought  of  him  her  eyes  were  kind. 

IV 

Too  lately  wed  to  have  forgot  the  wooing. 

Too  unaccustomed  as  a  bride  to  feel 
Other  than  strange  delight  at  her  wife's  doing. 

Even  at  the  thought  a  gentle  blush  would  steal 
Over  her  face,  and  then  her  lips  would  frame 
Some  little  word  of  loving,  and  her  eyes 

Would  brim  and  spill  their  tears,  when  all  they 

saw 
Was  the  bright  sun,  slantwise 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND    3HOSTS  13 

Through   burgeoning   trees,    and   all   the   morning's 

flame 

Burning  and  quivering  round  her.     With  quick  shame 
She  shut  her  heart  and  bent  before  the  law. 

V 

He  was  a  soldier,  she  was  proud  of  that. 

This  was  his  house  and  she  would  keep  it  well. 
His  honour  was  in  fighting,  hers  in  what 

He'd  left  her  here  in  charge  of.     Then  a  spell 
Of  conscience  sent  her  through  the  orchard  spying 

Upon  the  gardeners.     Were  their  tools  about  ? 
Were  any  branches  broken  ?     Had  the  weeds 

Been  duly  taken  out 

Under  the  'spaliered  pears,  and  were  these  lying 
Nailed  snug  against  the  sunny  bricks  and  drying 
Their  leaves  and  satisfying  all  their  needs  ? 


14  MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS 

VI 

She  picked  a  stone  up  with  a  little  pout, 

Stones  looked  so  ill  in  well-kept  flower-borders. 
Where  should  she  put  it  ?     All  the  paths  about 

Were  strewn  with  fair,  red  gravel  by  her  orders. 
No  stone  could  mar  their  sifted  smoothness.     So 

She  hurried  to  the  river.     At  the  edge 

She  stood  a  moment  charmed  by  the  swift  blue 

Beyond  the  river  sedge. 

She  watched  it  curdling,  crinkling,  and  the  snow 
Purfled  upon  its  wave-tops.     Then,  "Hullo, 

My  Beauty,  gently,  or  you'll  wriggle  through." 

VII 

The  Lady  Eunice  caught  a  willow  spray 

To  save  herself  from  tumbling  in  the  shallows 
Which  rippled  to  her  feet.    Then  straight  away 


MEN,   WOMEN  AND   GHOSTS  15 

She    peered    down    stream    among    the    budding 

sallows. 

A  youth  in  leather  breeches  and  a  shirt 
Of  finest  broidered  lawn  lay  out  upon 

An  overhanging  bole  and  deftly  swayed 
A  well-hooked  fish  which  shone 
In  the  pale  lemon  sunshine  like  a  spurt 
Of  silver,  oowed  and  damascened,  and  girt 

With  crimson  spots  and  moons  which  waned  and 
played. 

VIII 

The  fish  hung  circled  for  a  moment,  ringed 
And  bright ;  then  flung  itself  out,  a  thin  blade 

Of  spotted  lightning,  and  its  tail  was  winged 

With   chipped   and   sparkled   sunshine.     And   the 
shade 

Broke  up  and  splintered  into  shafts  of  light 
Wheeling  about  the  fish,  who  churned  the  air 


16  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

And  made  the  fish-line  hum,  and  bent  the  rod 
Almost  to  snapping.     Care 

The  young  man  took  against  the  twigs,  with  slight, 
Deft  movements  he  kept  fish  and  line  in  tight 

Obedience  to  his  will  with  every  prod. 

IX 

He  lay  there,  and  the  fish  hung  just  beyond. 

He  seemed  uncertain  what  more  he  should  do. 
He  drew  back,  pulled  the  rod  to  correspond, 

Tossed  it  and  caught  it ;   every  time  he  threw, 
He  caught  it  nearer  to  the  point.     At  last 

The  fish  was  near  enough  to  touch.     He  paused. 
Eunice  knew  well  the  craft  —  "What's  got  the 

thing!" 

She  cried.     "  What  can  have  caused  — 
Where  is  his  net  ?     The  moment  will  be  past. 
The  fish  will  wriggle  free."     She  stopped  aghast. 

He  turned  and  bowed.     One  arm  was  in  a  sling. 


MEN,   WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  17 

X 

The  broad,  black  ribbon  she  had  thought  his  basket 

Must  hang  from,  held  instead  a  useless  arm. 
"I  do  not  wonder,  Madam,  that  you  ask  it." 

He  smiled,  for  she  had  spoke  aloud.     "The  charm 
Of  trout  fishing  is  in  my  eyes  enhanced 

When  you  must  play  your  fish  on  land  as  well." 
"How  will  you  take  him  ?"    Eunice  asked.     "In 

truth 

I  really  cannot  tell. 

'Twas  stupid  of  me,  but  it  simply  chanced 
I  never  though  of  that  until  he  glanced 

Into  the  branches.     'Tis  a  bit  uncouth." 

XI 

He  watched  the  fish  against  the  blowing  sky, 
Writhing  and  glittering,  pulling  at  the  line. 
'The  hook  is  fast,  I  might  just  let  him  die," 


18  MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS 

He  mused.     "But  that  would  jar  against  your  fine 
Sense  of  true  sportsmanship,  I  know  it  would," 
Cried  Eunice.     "Let  me  do  it."     Swift  and  light 

She  ran  towards  him.     "It  is  so  long  now 
Since  I  have  felt  a  bite, 
I  lost  all  heart  for  everything."     She  stood, 
Supple  and  strong,  beside  him,  and  her  blood 
Tingled  her  lissom  body  to  a  glow. 

XII 
She  quickly  seized  the  fish  and  with  a  stone 

Ended  its  flurry,  then  removed  the  hook, 
Untied  the  fly  with  well-poised  fingers.     Done, 

She  asked  him  where  he  kept  his  fishing-book. 
He  pointed  to  a  coat  flung  on  the  ground. 

She  searched  the  pockets,  found  a  shagreen  case, 
Replaced  the  fly,  noticed  a  golden  stamp 

Filling  the  middle  space. 
Two  letters  half  rubbed  out  were  there,  and  round 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS  19 

About  them  gay  rococo  flowers  wound 

And  tossed  a  spray  of  roses  to  the  clamp. 

XIII 

The  Lady  Eunice  puzzled  over  these. 

"G.  D."  the  young  man  gravely  said.     "My  name 
Is  Gervase  Deane.     Your  servant,  if  you  please." 

"Oh,  Sir,  indeed  I  know  you,  for  your  fame 
For  exploits  in  the  field  has  reached  my  ears. 

I  did  not  know  you  wounded  and  returned." 
"But  just  come  back,  Madam.     A  silly  prick 

To  gain  me  such  unearned 
Holiday  making.     And  you,  it  appears, 
Must  be  Sir  Everard's  lady.     And  my  fears 
At  being  caught  a-trespassing  were  quick." 

XIV 

He  looked  so  rueful  that  she  laughed  out  loud. 
"You  are  forgiven,  Mr.  Deane.     Even  more, 
I  offer  you  the  fishing,  and  am  proud 


20  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

That  you  should  find  it  pleasant  from  this  shore. 
Nobody  fishes  now,  my  husband  used 
To  angle  daily,  and  I  too  with  him. 

He  loved  the  spotted  trout,  and  pike,  and  dace. 
He  even  had  a  whim 

That  flies  my  fingers  tied  swiftly  confused 
The  greater  fish.     And  he  must  be  excused, 

Love  weaves  odd  fancies  in  a  lonely  place." 

XV 

She  sighed  because  it  seemed  so  long  ago, 

Those  days  with  Everard ;  unthinking  took 
The  path  back  to  the  orchard.     Strolling  so 

She  walked,  and  he  beside  her.     In  a  nook 
Where  a  stone  seat  withdrew  beneath  low  boughs, 
Full-blossomed,  hummed  with  bees,  they  sat  them 

down. 

She  questioned  him  about  the  war,  the  share 
Her  husband  had,  and  grown 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND   GHOSTS  21 

Eager  by  his  clear  answers,  straight  allows 
Her  hidden  hopes  and  fears  to  speak,  and  rouse 

Her   numbed   love,   which   had   slumbered   un 
aware. 

XVI 

Under  the  orchard  trees  daffodils  danced 

And  jostled,  turning  sideways  to  the  wind. 
A  dropping  cherry  petal  softly  glanced 
Over  her  hair,  and  slid  away  behind. 
At  the  far  end  through  twisted  cherry-trees 

The  old  house  glowed,  geranium-hued,  with  bricks 

Bloomed  in  the  sun  like  roses,  low  and  long, 
Gabled,  and  with  quaint  tricks 
Of  chimneys  carved  and  fretted.     Out  of  these 
Grey   smoke   was   shaken,    which   the    faint   Spring 

breeze 
Tossed  into  nothing.     Then  a  thrush's  song 


22  MEN,   WOMEN  AND   GHOSTS 

XVII 

Needled  its  way  through  sound  of  bees  and  river. 
The  notes  fell,  round  and  starred,  between  young 

leaves, 
Trilled  to  a  spiral  lilt,  stopped  on  a  quiver. 

The  Lady  Eunice  listens  and  believes. 
Gervase  has  many  tales  of  her  dear  Lord, 
His  bravery,  his  knowledge,  his  charmed  life. 

She  quite  forgets  who's  speaking  in  the  gladness 
Of  being  this  man's  wife. 
Gervase  is  wounded,  grave  indeed,  the  word 
Is  kindly  said,  but  to  a  softer  chord 

She  strings  her  voice  to  ask  with  wistful  sadness, 

XVIII 

"And  is  Sir  Everard  still  unscathed  ?     I  fain 

Would  know  the  truth."     "Quite  well,  dear  Lady, 

quite." 
She  smiled  in  her  content.     "So  many  slain, 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS  23 

You  must  forgive  me  for  a  little  fright." 
And  he  forgave  her,  not  alone  for  that, 
But  because  she  was  fingering  his  heart, 

Pressing  and  squeezing  it,  and  thinking  so 
Only  to  ease  her  smart 
Of  painful,  apprehensive  longing.     At 
Their  feet  the  river  swirled  and  chucked.     They  sat 
An  hour  there.     The  thrush  flew  to  and  fro. 

XIX 

The  Lady  Eunice  supped  alone  that  day, 

As  always  since  Sir  Everard  had  gone, 
In  the  oak-panelled  parlour,  whose  array 

Of  faded  portraits  in  carved  mouldings  shone. 
Warriors  and  ladies,  armoured,  ruffed,  peruked. 

Van  Dykes  with  long,  slim  fingers ;  Holbeins,  stout 
And  heavy-featured ;   and  one  Rubens  dame, 

A  peony  just  burst  out, 
With  flaunting,  crimson  flesh.     Eunice  rebuked 


24  MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS 

Her  thoughts  of  gentler  blood,  when  these  had  duked 
It  with  the  best,  and  scorned  to  change  their 
name. 

XX 

A  sturdy  family,  and  old  besides, 

Much  older  than  her  own,  the  Earls  of  Crowe. 
Since  Saxon  days,  these  men  had  sought  their  brides 

Among  the  highest  born,  but  always  so, 
Taking  them  to  themselves,  their  wealth,  their  lands, 
But  never  their  titles.     Stern  perhaps,  but  strong, 
The   Framptons    fed   their   blood   from   richest 

streams, 

Scorning  the  common  throng. 
Gazing  upon  these  men,  she  understands 
The  toughness  of  the  web  wrought  from  such  strands, 
And  pride  of  Everard  colours  all  her  dreams. 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS  25 

XXI 

Eunice  forgets  to  eat,  watching  their  faces 

Flickering  in  the  wind-blown  candle's  shine. 
Blue-coated  lackeys  tiptoe  to  their  places, 

And  set  out  plates  of  fruit  and  jugs  of  wine. 
The  table  glitters  black  like  Winter  ice. 

The  Dartle's  rushing,  and  the  gentle  clash 
Of  blossomed  branches,  drifts  into  her  ears. 

And  through  the  casement  sash 
She  sees  each  cherry  stem  a  pointed  slice 
Of  splintered  moonlight,  topped  with  all  the  spice 
And  shimmer  of  the  blossoms  it  uprears. 

XXII 

"In  such  a  night —  "  she  laid  the  book  aside, 
She  could  outnight  the  poet  by  thinking  back. 

In  such  a  night  she  came  here  as  a  bride. 
The  date  was  graven  in  the  almanack 


26  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

Of  her  clasped  memory.     In  this  very  room 
Had  Everard  uncloaked  her.     On  this  seat 

Had  drawn  her  to  him,  bade  her  note  the  trees, 
How  white  they  were  and  sweet 
And  later,  coming  to  her,  her  dear  groom, 
Her  Lord,  had  lain  beside  her  in  the  gloom 

Of  moon  and  shade,  and  whispered  her  to  ease. 

XXIII 
Her  little  taper  made  the  room  seem  vast, 

Caverned  and  empty.     And  her  beating  heart 
Rapped  through  the  silence  all  about  her  cast 

Like  some  loud,  dreadful  death-watch  taking  part 
In  this  sad  vigil.     Slowly  she  undrest, 
Put  out  the  light  and  crept  into  her  bed. 

The  linen  sheets  were  fragrant,  but  so  cold. 
And  brimming  tears  she  shed, 
Sobbing  and  quivering  in  her  barren  nest, 
Her  weeping  lips  into  the  pillow  prest, 

Her  eyes  sealed  fast  within  its  smothering  fold. 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  27 

XXIV 

The  morning  brought  her  a  more  stoic  mind, 

And  sunshine  struck  across  the  polished  floor. 
She  wondered  whether  this  day  she  should  find 

Gervase  a-fishing,  and  so  listen  more, 
Much  more  again,  to  all  he  had  to  tell. 

And  he  was  there,  but  waiting  to  begin 

Until  she  came.     They  fished  awhile,  then  went 

To  the  old  seat  within 

The  cherry's  shade.     He  pleased  her  very  well 
By  his  discourse.     But  ever  he  must  dwell 
Upon  Sir  Everard.     Each  incident 

XXV 

Must  be  related  and  each  term  explained. 

How  troops  were  set  in  battle,  how  a  siege 
Was  ordered  and  conducted.     She  complained 

Because  he  bungled  at  the  fall  of  Liege. 


28  MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS 

The  curious  names  of  parts  of  forts  she  knew, 
And  aired  with  conscious  pride  her  ravelins, 

And  counterscarps,  and  lunes.     The  day  drew 

on, 

And  his  dead  fish's  fins 

In  the  hot  sunshine  turned  a  mauve-green  hue. 
At  last  Gervase,  guessing  the  hour,  withdrew. 
But  she  sat  long  in  still  oblivion. 

XXVI 

Then  he  would  bring  her  books,  and  read  to  her 

The  poems  of  Dr.  Donne,  and  the  blue  river 
Would  murmur  through  the  reading,  and  a  stir 

Of  birds  and  bees  make  the  white  petals  shiver, 
And  one  or  two  would  flutter  prone  and  lie 

Spotting  the  smooth-clipped  grass.     The  days  went 

by 

Threaded  with  talk  and  verses.     Green  leaves 
pushed 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS 

Through  blossoms  stubbornly. 
Gervase,  unconscious  of  dishonesty, 
Fell  into  strong  and  watchful  loving,  free 

He  thought,  since  always  would  his  lips  be  hushed. 


XXVII 
But  lips  do  not  stay  silent  at  command, 

And  Gervase  strove  in  vain  to  order  his. 
Luckily  Eunice  did  not  understand 

That  he  but  read  himself  aloud,  for  this 
Their  friendship  would  have  snapped.     She  treated 

him 
And  spoilt  him  like  a  brother.     It  was  now 

"Gervase"  and  "Eunice"   with  them,  and  he 

dined 

Whenever  she'd  allow, 
In  the  oak  parlour,  underneath  the  dim 
Old  pictured  Framptons,  opposite  her  slim 

Figure,  so  bright  against  the  chair  behind. 


30  MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS 

XXVIII 

Eunice  was  happier  than  she  had  been 

For  many  days,  and  yet  the  hours  were  long. 
All  Gervase  told  to  her  but  made  her  lean 

More  heavily  upon  the  past.     Among 
Her  hopes  she  lived,  even  when  she  was  giving 
Her  morning  orders,  even  when  she  twined 

Nosegays    to    deck    her    parlours.     With    the 

thought 

Of  Everard,  her  mind 
Solaced  its  solitude,  and  in  her  striving 
To  do  as  he  would  wish  was  all  her  living. 

She  welcomed  Gervase  for  the  news  he  brought. 

XXIX 

Black-hearts  and  white-hearts,  bubbled  with  the  sun, 
Hid  in  their  leaves  and  knocked  against  each  other. 
Eunice  was  standing,  panting  with  her  run 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  31 

Up  to  the  tool-house  just  to  get  another 
Basket.     All  those  which  she  had  brought  were  filled, 
And  still  Gervase  pelted  her  from  above. 

The   buckles   of   his   shoes   flashed   higher   and 

higher 

Until  his  shoulders  strove 

Quite  through  the  top.     "Eunice,  your  spirit's  filled 
This  tree.     White-hearts!"     He  shook,  and  cherries 

spilled 
And  spat  out  from  the  leaves  like  falling  fire. 

XXX 

The  wide,  sun-winged  June  morning  spread  itself 
Over  the  quiet  garden.     And  they  packed 

Full  twenty  baskets  with  the  fruit.     "My  shelf 
Of  cordials  will  be  stored  with  what  it  lacked. 

In  future,  none  of  us  will  drink  strong  ale, 
But  cherry -brandy."     "Vastly  good,  I  vow," 
And  Gervase  gave  the  tree  another  shake. 


32  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

The  cherries  seemed  to  flow 
Out  of  the  sky  in  cloudfuls,  like  blown  hail. 
Swift  Lady  Eunice  ran,  her  farthingale, 
Unnoticed,  tangling  in  a  fallen  rake. 

XXXI 

She  gave  a  little  cry  and  fell  quite  prone 

In  the  long  grass,  and  lay  there  very  still. 
Gervase  leapt  from  the  tree  at  her  soft  moan, 

And  kneeling  over  her,  with  clumsy  skill 
Unloosed  her  bodice,  fanned  her  with  his  hat, 

And  his  unguarded  lips  pronounced  his  heart. 
"Eunice,  my  Dearest  Girl,  where  are  you  hurt?: 

His  trembling  fingers  dart 

Over  her  limbs  seeking  some  wound.     She  strove 
To  answer,  opened  wide  her  eyes,  above 
Her  knelt  Sir  Everard,  with  face  alert. 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  33 

XXXII 

Her  eyelids  fell  again  at  that  sweet  sight, 

"My  Love!"  she  murmured,  "Dearest!     Oh,  my 

Dear!" 

He  took  her  in  his  arms  and  bore  her  right 
And  tenderly  to  the  old  seat,  and  "Here 
I  have  you  mine  at  last,"  she  said,  and  swooned 
Under  his  kisses.     When  she  came  once  more 

To  sight  of  him,  she  smiled  in  comfort  knowing 
Herself  laid  as  before 

Close  covered  on  his  breast.     And  all  her  glowing 
Youth  answered  him,  and  ever  nearer  growing 

She  twined  him  in  her  arms  and  soft  festooned 

XXXIII 

Herself  about  him  like  a  flowering  vine, 

Drawing  his  lips  to  cling  upon  her  own. 
A  ray  of  sunlight  pierced  the  leaves  to  shine 


34  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

Where  her  half -opened  bodice  let  be  shown 
Her  white  throat  fluttering  to  his  soft  caress, 

Half-gasping  with  her  gladness.     And  her  pledge 

She  whispers,  melting  with  delight.     A  twig 
Snaps  in  the  hornbeam  hedge. 
A  cackling  laugh  tears  through  the  quietness. 
Eunice  starts  up  in  terrible  distress. 

"My  God  !  What's  that?"     Her  staring  eyes  are 
big. 

XXXIV 

Revulsed  emotion  set  her  body  shaking 

As  though  she  had  an  ague.     Gervase  swore, 
Jumped  to  his  feet  in  such  a  dreadful  taking 

His  face  was  ghastly  with  the  look  it  wore. 
Crouching  and  slipping  through  the  trees,  a  man 

In  worn,  blue  livery,  a  humpbacked  thing, 

Made  off.     But  turned  every  few  steps  to  gaze 

At  Eunice,  and  to  fling 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  35 

Vile  looks  and  gestures  back.     "The  ruffian  ! 
By  Christ's  Death !    I  will  split  him  to  a  span 

Of  hog's  thongs."     She  grasped  at  his  sleeve, 
"Gervase ! 

XXXV 

What  are  you  doing  here  ?     Put  down  that  sword, 

That's  only  poor  old  Tony,  crazed  and  lame. 
We  never  notice  him.     With  my  dear  Lord 

I  ought  not  to  have  minded  that  he  came. 
But,  Gervase,  it  surprises  me  that  you 

Should  so  lack  grace  to  stay  here."     With  one 

hand 

She  held  her  gaping  bodice  to  conceal 
Her  breast.     "I  must  demand 
Your  instant  absence.     Everard,  but  new 
Returned,  will  hardly  care  for  guests.     Adieu." 

"Eunice,  you're  mad."     His  brain  began  to  reel. 


36  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

XXXVI 

He  tried  again  to  take  her,  tried  to  twist 

Her  arms  about  him.     Truly,  she  had  said 
Nothing  should  ever  part  them.     In  a  mist 

She  pushed  him  from  her,  clasped  her  aching  head 
In  both  her  hands,  and  rocked  and  sobbed  aloud. 

"Oh !     Where  is  Everard?     What  does  this  mean? 
So  lately  come  to  leave  me  thus  alone ! " 

But  Gervase  had  not  seen 
Sir  Everard.     Then,  gently,  to  her  bowed 
And  sickening  spirit,  he  told  of  her  proud 

Surrender  to  him.     He  could  hear  her  moan. 

XXXVII 

Then  shame  swept  over  her  and  held  her  numb, 
Hiding  her  anguished  face  against  the  seat. 

At  last  she  rose,  a  woman  stricken  —  dumb  — 
And  trailed  away  with  slowly-dragging  feet. 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  37 

Gervase  looked  after  her,  but  feared  to  pass 
The  barrier  set  between  them.     All  his  rare 

Joy    broke    to    fragments  —  worse    than    that, 

unreal. 

And  standing  lonely  there, 
His  swollen  heart  burst  out,  and  on  the  grass 
He  flung  himself  and  wept.     He  knew,  alas  ! 
The  loss  so  great  his  life  could  never  heal. 

XXXVIII 

For  days  thereafter  Eunice  lived  retired, 

Waited  upon  by  one  old  serving-maid. 
She  would  not  leave  her  chamber,  and  desired 

Only  to  hide  herself.     She  was  afraid 
Of  what  her  eyes  might  trick  her  into  seeing, 

Of  what  her  longing  urge  her  then  to  do. 
What  was  this  dreadful  illness  solitude 

Had  tortured  her  into  ? 
Her  hours  went  by  in  a  long  constant  fleeing 


38  MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS 

The  thought  of  that  one  morning.     And  her  being 
Bruised  itself  on  a  happening  so  rude. 

XXXIX 

It  grew  ripe  Summer,  when  one  morning  came 

Her  tirewoman  with  a  letter,  printed 
Upon  the  seal  were  the  Deane  crest  and  name. 

With  utmost  gentleness,  the  letter  hinted 
His  understanding  and  his  deep  regret. 

But  would  she  not  permit  him  once  again 
To  pay  her  his  profound  respects  ?     No  word 

Of  what  had  passed  should  pain 
Her  resolution.     Only  let  them  get 
Back  the  old  comradeship.     Her  eyes  were  wet 
With  starting  tears,  now  truly  she  deplored 

XL 

His  misery.     Yes,  she  was  wrong  to  keep 

Away  from  him.     He  hardly  was  to  blame. 
'Twas  she  —  she  shuddered  and  began  to  weep. 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  39 

'Twas  her  fault !     Hers  !     Her  everlasting  shame 
Was  that  she  suffered  him,  whom  not  at  all 

She  loved.     Poor  Boy !     Yes,  they  must  still  be 

friends. 

She  owed  him  that  to  keep  the  balance  straight 
It  was  such  poor  amends 

Which  she  could  make  for  rousing  hopes  to  gall 
Him  with  their  unfulfilment.     Tragical 

It  was,  and  she  must  leave  him  desolate. 

XLI 

Hard  silence  he  had  forced  upon  his  lips 

For  long  and  long,  and  would  have  done  so  still 
Had  not  she  —  here  she  pressed  her  finger  tips 

Against  her  heavy  eyes.     Then  with  forced  will 
She  wrote  that  he  might  come,  sealed  with  the  arms 
Of  Crowe  and  Frampton  twined.     Her  heart  felt 

lighter 
When  this  was  done.    It  seemed  her  constant  care 


40  MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS 

Might  some  day  cease  to  fright  her. 
Illness  could  be  no  crime,  and  dreadful  harms 
Did  come  from  too  much  sunshine.     Her  alarms 
Would  lessen  when  she  saw  him  standing  there. 

XLII 

Simple  and  kind,  a  brother  just  returned 

From  journeying,  and  he  would  treat  her  so. 
She  knew  his  honest  heart,  and  if  there  burned 

A  spark  in  it  he  would  not  let  it  show. 
But  when  he  really  came,  and  stood  beside 

Her  underneath  the  fruitless  cherry  boughs, 
He  seemed  a  tired  man,  gaunt,  leaden-eyed. 

He  made  her  no  more  vows, 
Nor  did  he  mention  one  thing  he  had  tried 
To  put  into  his  letter.     War  supplied 

Him  topics.     And  his  mind  seemed  occupied. 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  41 

XLIII 

Daily  they  met.     And  gravely  walked  and  talked. 

He  read  her  no  more  verses,  and  he  stayed 
Only  until  their  conversation,  balked 

Of  every  natural  channel,  fled  dismayed. 
Again  the  next  day  she  would  meet  him,  trying 

To  give  her  tone  some  healthy  sprightliness, 
But  his  uneager  dignity  soon  chilled 

Her  well-prepared  address. 

Thus  Summer  waned,  and  in  the  mornings,  crying 
Of  wild  geese  startled  Eunice,  and  their  flying 
Whirred  overhead  for  days  and  never  stilled. 

XLIV 

One  afternoon  of  grey  clouds  and  white  wind, 

Eunice  awaited  Gervase  by  the  river. 
The  Dartle  splashed  among  the  reeds  and  whined 

Over  the  willow-roots,  and  a  long  sliver 


42  MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS 

Of  caked  and  slobbered  foam  crept  up  the  bank. 
All  through  the  garden,  drifts  of  skirling  leaves 

Blew  up,  and  settled  down,  and  blew  again. 
The  cherry-trees  were  weaves 
Of  empty,  knotted  branches,  and  a  dank 
Mist  hid  the  house,  mouldy  it  smelt  and  rank 
With  sodden  wood,  and  still  unfailing  rain. 

XLV 

Eunice  paced  up  and  down.     No  joy  she  took 
At  meeting  Gervase,  but  the  custom  grown 
Still  held  her.     He  was  late.     She  sudden  shook, 
And  caught  at  her  stopped  heart.     Her  eyes  had 

shown 
Sir  Everard  emerging  from  the  mist. 

His  uniform  was  travel-stained  and  torn, 

His  jackboots  muddy,  and  his  eager  stride 
Jangled  his  spurs.     A  thorn 
Entangled,  trailed  behind  him.     To  the  tryst 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  43 

He  hastened.     Eunice  shuddered,  ran  —  a  twist 
Round  a  sharp  turning  and  she  fled  to  hide. 

XL  VI 

But  he  had  seen  her  as  she  swiftly  ran, 

'A  flash  of  white  against  the  river's  grey. 
"Eunice,"  he  called.     "My  Darling.     Eunice.     Can 

You  hear  me  ?     It  is  Everard.     All  day 
I  have  been  riding  like  the  very  devil 

To  reach  you  sooner.     Are  you  startled,  Dear?" 
He  broke  into  a  run  and  followed  her, 

And  caught  her,  faint  with  fear, 
Cowering  and  trembling  as  though  she  some  evil 
Spirit  were  seeing.     "What  means  this  uncivil 

Greeting,  Dear  Heart  ?  "     He  saw  her  senses  blur. 

XL  VII 

Swaying  and  catching  at  the  seat,  she  tried 
To  speak,  but  only  gurgled  in  her  throat. 
At  last,  straining  to  hold  herself,  she  cried 


44  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

To  him  for  pity,  and  her  strange  words  smote 
A  coldness  through  him,  for  she  begged  Gervase 
To  leave  her,  'twas  too  much  a  second  time. 

Gervase  must  go,  always  Gervase,  her  mind 
Repeated  like  a  rhyme 
This  name  he  did  not  know.    In  sad  amaze 
He  watched  her,  and  that  hunted,  fearful  gaze, 
So  unremembering  and  so  unkind. 

XLVIII 

Softly  he  spoke  to  her,  patiently  dealt 

With  what  he  feared  her  madness.    By  and  by 
He  pierced  her  understanding.    Then  he  knelt 

Upon  the  seat,  and  took  her  hands :  "Now  try 
To  think  a  minute  I  am  come,  my  Dear, 

Unharmed  and  back  on  furlough.     Are  you  glad 
To  have  your  lover  home  again  ?    To  me, 

Pickthorn  has  never  had 
A  greater  pleasantness.     Could  you  not  bear 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  45 

To  come  and  sit  awhile  beside  me  here  ? 

A  stone  between  us  surely  should  not  be." 

XLIX 
She  smiled  a  little  wan  and  ravelled  smile, 

Then  came  to  him  and  on  his  shoulder  laid 
Her  head,  and  they  two  rested  there  awhile, 

Each  taking  comfort.     Not  a  word  was  said. 
But  when  he  put  his  hand  upon  her  breast 
And  felt  her  beating  heart,  and  with  his  lips 

Sought  solace  for  her  and  himself.     She  started 
As  one  sharp  lashed  with  whips, 
And  pushed  him  from  her,  moaning,  his  dumb  quest 
Denied  and  shuddered  from.     And  he,  distrest, 

Loosened  his  wife,  and  long  they  sat  there,  parted. 

L 

Eunice  was  very  quiet  all  that  day, 

A  little  dazed,  and  yet  she  seemed  content. 


46  MEN,    WOMEN  AND   GHOSTS 

At  candle-time,  he  asked  if  she  would  play 
Upon  her  harpsichord,  at  once  she  went 
And  tinkled  airs  from  Lully's  Carnival 

And  Bacchus,  newly  brought  away  from  France. 

Then  jaunted  through  a  lively  rigadoon 
To  please  him  with  a  dance 
By  Purcell,  for  he  said  that  surely  all 
Good  Englishmen  had  pride  in  national 

Accomplishment.    But  tiring  of  it  soon 

LI 

He  whispered  her  that  if  she  had  forgiven 
His  startling  her  that  afternoon,  the  clock 

Marked  early  bed-time.     Surely  it  was  Heaven 
He  entered  when  she  opened  to  his  knock. 

The  hours  rustled  in  the  trailing  wind 

Over  the  chimney.     Close  they  lay  and  knew 
Only  that  they  were  wedded.     At  his  touch 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS  47 

Anxiety  she  threw 

Away  like  a  shed  garment,  and  inclined 
Herself  to  cherish  him,  her  happy  mind 

Quivering,  unthinking,  loving  overmuch. 

LII 

Eunice  lay  long  awake  in  the  cool  night 

After  her  husband  slept.     She  gazed  with  joy 
Into  the  shadows,  painting  them  with  bright 

Pictures  of  all  her  future  life's  employ. 
Twin  gems  they  were,  set  to  a  single  jewel, 

Each  shining  with  the  other.     Soft  she  turned 
And  felt  his  breath  upon  her  hair,  and  prayed 

Her  happiness  was  earned. 

Past  Earls  of  Crowe  should  give  their  blood  for  fuel 
To  light  this  Framp ton's  hearth-fire.     By  no  cruel 
Affrightings  would  she  ever  be  dismayed. 


48  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

LIII 

When  Everard,  next  day,  asked  her  in  joke 

What  name  it  was  that  she  had  called  him  by, 
She  told  him  of  Gervase,  and  as  she  spoke 

She  hardly  realized  it  was  a  lie. 
Her  vision  she  related,  but  she  hid 

The  fondness  into  which  she  had  been  led. 
Sir  Everard  just  laughed  and  pinched  her  ear, 

And  quite  out  of  her  head 
The  matter  drifted.     Then  Sir  Everard  chid 
Himself  for  laziness,  and  off  he  rid 

To  see  his  men  and  count  his  farming-gear. 

LIV 

At  supper  he  seemed  overspread  with  gloom, 
But  gave  no  reason  why,  he  only  asked 

More  questions  of  Gervase,  and  round  the  room 
He  walked  with  restless  strides.     At  last  he  tasked 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND   GHOSTS  49 

Her  with  a  greater  feeling  for  this  man 

Than  she  had  given.     Eunice  quick  denied 
The  slightest  interest  other  than  a  friend 
Might  claim.     But  he  replied 
He  thought  she  underrated.     Then  a  ban 
He  put  on  talk  and  music.     He'd  a  plan 

To  work  at,  draining  swamps  at  Pickthorn  End. 

LV 

Next  morning  Eunice  found  her  Lord  still  changed, 

Hard  and  unkind,  with  bursts  of  anger.     Pride 
Kept  him  from  speaking  out.     His  probings  ranged 

All  round  his  torment.     Lady  Eunice  tried 
To  sooth  him.     So  a  week  went  by,  and  then 

His  anguish  flooded  over ;  with  clenched  hands 
Striving  to  stem  his  words,  he  told  her  plain 

Tony  had  seen  them,  "brands 
Burning  in  Hell,"  the  man  had  said.     Again 
Eunice  described  her  vision,  and  how  when 

Awoke  at  last  she  had  known  dreadful  pain. 


50  MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS 

LVI 

He  could  not  credit  it,  and  misery  fed 

Upon  his  spirit,  day  by  day  it  grew. 
To  Gervase  he  forbade  the  house,  and  led 

The  Lady  Eunice  such  a  life  she  flew 
At  his  approaching  footsteps.     Winter  came 

Snowing  and  blustering  through  the  Manor  trees. 
All  the  roof-edges  spiked  with  icicles 

In  fluted  companies. 

The  Lady  Eunice  with  her  tambour-frame 
Kept  herself  sighing  company.     The  flame 
Of  the  birch  fire  glittered  on  the  walls. 

LVII 

A  letter  was  brought  to  her  as  she  sat, 

Unsealed,  unsigned.     It  told  her  that  his  wound, 

The  writer's,  had  so  well  recovered  that 
To  join  his  regiment  he  felt  him  bound. 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  51 

But  would  she  not  wish  him  one  short  "Godspeed," 
He  asked  no  more.     Her  greeting  would  suffice. 

He  had  resolved  he  never  should  return. 
Would  she  this  sacrifice 

Make  for  a  dying  man  ?     How  could  she  read 
The  rest !     But  forcing  her  eyes  to  the  deed, 

She  read.     Then  dropped  it  in  the  fire  to  burn. 

LVIII 

Gervase  had  set  the  river  for  their  meeting 

As  farthest  from  the  farms  where  Everard 
Spent  all  his  days.     How  should  he  know  such  cheat 
ing 

Was  quite  expected,  at  least  no  dullard 
Was  Everard  Frampton.     Hours  by  hours  he  hid 

Among  the  willows  watching.     Dusk  had  come, 
And  from  the  Manor  he  had  long  been  gone. 

Eunice  her  burdensome 
Task  set  about.     Hooded  and  cloaked,  she  slid 


52  MEN,    WOMEN  AND   GHOSTS 

Over  the  slippery  paths,  and  soon  amid 

The  sallows  saw  a  boat  tied  to  a  stone. 

LIX 

Gervase  arose,  and  kissed  her  hand,  then  pointed 

Into  the  boat.     She  shook  her  head,  but  he 
Begged  her  to  realize  why,  and  with  disjointed 

Words  told  her  of  what  peril  there  might  be 
From  listeners  along  the  river  bank. 

A  push  would  take  them  out  of  earshot.     Ten 
Minutes  was  all  he  asked,  then  she  should  land, 

He  go  away  again, 

Forever  this  time.     Yet  how  could  he  thank 
Her  for  so  much  compassion.     Here  she  sank 
Upon  a  thwart,  and  bid  him  quick  unstrand 

LX 
His  boat.     He  cast  the  rope,  and  shoved  the  keel 

Free  of  the  gravel ;   jumped,  and  dropped  beside 
Her ;  took  the  oars,  and  they  began  to  steal 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND   GHOSTS  53 

Under  the  overhanging  trees.     A  wide 
Gash  of  red  lantern-light  cleft  like  a  blade 
Into  the  gloom,  and  struck  on  Eunice  sitting 

Rigid  and  stark  upon  the  after  thwart. 
It  blazed  upon  their  flitting 
In  merciless  light.     A  moment  so  it  stayed, 
Then  was  extinguished,  and  Sir  Everard  made 
One  leap,  and  landed  just  a  fraction  short. 


LXI 

I   His  weight  upon  the  gunwale  tipped  the  boat 

To  straining  balance.     Everard  lurched  and  seized 
1   His  wife  and  held  her  smothered  to  his  coat. 

"Everard,  loose  me,  we  shall  drown  — "  and  squeezed 
I   Against  him,  she  beat  with  her  hands.     He  gasped 
\       "Never,  by  God  !"     The  slidden  boat  gave  way 
\         And  the  black  foamy  water  split  —  and  met. 
\  Bubbled  up  through  the  spray 
A  wailing  rose  and  in  the  branches  rasped, 


54  MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS 

And  creaked,  and  stilled.     Over  the  treetops,  clasped 
In  the  blue  evening,  a  clear  moon  was  set. 

LXII 

They  lie  entangled  in  the  twisting  roots, 

Embraced  forever.     Their  cold  marriage  bed 
Close-canopied  and  curtained  by  the  shoots 

Of  willows  and  pale  birches.     At  the  head, 
White  lilies,  like  still  swans,  placidly  float 

And  sway  above  the  pebbles.     Here  are  waves 
Sun-smitten  for  a  threaded  counterpane 

Gold-woven  on  their  graves. 
In  perfect  quietness  they  sleep,  remote 
In  the  green,  rippled  twilight.     Death  has  smote 
Them  to  perpetual  oneness  who  were  twain. 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND   GHOSTS  55 


THE  CREMONA  VIOLIN 

PART   FIRST 

FRAU  CONCERT-MEISTER  ALTGELT  shut  the  door. 
A  storm  was  rising,  heavy  gusts  of  wind 
Swirled  through  the  trees,  and  scattered  leaves  before 
Her  on  the  clean,  nagged  path.     The  sky  behind 
The  distant  town  was  black,  and  sharp  defined 
Against  it  shone  the  lines  of  roofs  and  towers, 
Superimposed  and  flat  like  cardboard  flowers. 

A  pasted  city  on  a  purple  ground, 

Picked  out  with  luminous  paint,  it  seemed.    The 

cloud 

Split  on  an  edge  of  lightning,  and  a  sound 
Of  rivers  full  and  rushing  boomed  through  bowed, 
Tossed,  hissing  branches.     Thunder  rumbled  loud 


I 


56  MEN,    WOMEN  AND   GHOSTS 

Beyond  the  town  fast  swallowing  into  gloom. 
Frau  Altgelt  closed  the  windows  of  each  room. 

She  bustled  round  to  shake  by  constant  moving 

The  strange,  weird  atmosphere.     She  stirred  the  fire, 

She  twitched  the  supper-cloth  as  though  improving 

Its  careful  setting,  then  her  own  attire 

Came  in  for  notice,  tiptoeing  higher  and  higher 

She  peered  into  the  wall-glass,  now  adjusting 

A  straying  lock,  or  else  a  ribbon  thrusting 

This  way  or  that  to  suit  her.     At  last  sitting, 

Or  rather  plumping  down  upon  a  chair, 

She  took  her  work,  the  stocking  she  was  knitting, 

And  watched  the  rain  upon  the  window  glare 

In  white,  bright  drops.     Through  the  black  glass  a 

flare 

Of  lightning  squirmed  about  her  needles.     "Oh  !" 
She  cried.     "What  can  be  keeping  Theodore  so !" 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  57 

A  roll  of  thunder  set  the  casements  clapping. 
Frau  Altgelt  flung  her  work  aside  and  ran, 
Pulled  open  the  house  door,  with  kerchief  flapping 
She  stood  and  gazed  along  the  street.     A  man 
Flung  back  the  garden-gate  and  nearly  ran 
Her  down  as  she  stood  in  the  door.     "Why,  Dear, 
What  in  the  name  of  patience  brings  you  here  ? 

Quick,  Lotta,  shut  the  door,  my  violin 

I  fear  is  wetted.     Now,  Dear,  bring  a  light. 

This  clasp  is  very  much  too  worn  and  thin. 

I'll  take  the  other  fiddle  out  to-night 

If  it  still  rains.     Tut !  Tut !  my  child,  you're  quite 

Clumsy.     Here,  help  me,  hold  the  case  while  I  — 

Give  me  the  candle.     No,  the  inside's  dry. 

Thank  God  for  that !    Well,  Lotta,  how  are  you  ? 
A  bad  storm,  but  the  house  still  stands,  I  see. 
Is  my  pipe  filled,  my  Dear  ?     I'll  have  a  few 


58  MEN,    WOMEN   AND   GHOSTS 

Puffs  and  a  snooze  before  I  eat  my  tea. 
What  do  you  say  ?     That  you  were  feared  for  me  ? 
Nonsense,  my  child.     Yes,  kiss  me,  now  don't  talk. 
I  need  a  rest,  the  theatre's  a  long  walk." 

Her  needles  still,  her  hands  upon  her  lap 

Patiently  laid,  Charlotta  Altgelt  sat 

And  watched  the  rain-run  window.     In  his  nap 

Her  husband  stirred  and  muttered.     Seeing  that, 

Charlotta  rose  and  softly,  pit-a-pat, 

Climbed  up  the  stairs,  and  in  her  little  room 

Found  sighing  comfort  with  a  moon  in  bloom. 

But  even  rainy  windows,  silver-lit 

By  a  new-burst,  storm-whetted  moon,  may  give 

But  poor  content  to  loneliness,  and  it 

Was  hard  for  young  Charlotta  so  to  strive 

And  down  her  eagerness  and  learn  to  live 

In  placid  quiet.     While  her  husband  slept, 

Charlotta  in  her  upper  chamber  wept. 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS  59 

Herr  Concert-Meister  Altgelt  was  a  man 

Gentle  and  unambitious,  that  alone 

Had  kept  him  back.     He  played  as  few  men  can, 

Drawing  out  of  his  instrument  a  tone 

So  shimmering -sweet  and  palpitant,  it  shone 

Like  a  bright  thread  of  sound  hung  in  the  tiir, 

Afloat  and  swinging  upward,  slim  and  fair. 

Above  all  things,  above  Charlotta  his  wife, 

Herr  Altgelt  loved  his  violin,  a  fine 

Cremona  pattern,  Stradivari's  life 

Was  flowering  out  of  early  discipline 

When  this  was  fashioned.     Of  soft-cutting  pine 

The  belly  was.     The  back  of  broadly  curled 

Maple,  the  head  made  thick  and  sharply  whirled. 

The  slanting,  youthful  sound-holes  through 
The  belly  of  fine,  vigorous  pine 
Mellowed  each  note  and  blew 


60  MEN,   WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS 

It  out  again  with  a  woody  flavour 
Tanged  and  fragrant  as  fir-trees  are 
When  breezes  in  their  needles  jar. 

The  varnish  was  an  orange-brown 

Lustered  like  glass  that's  long  laid  down 

Under  a  crumbling  villa  stone. 

Purfled  stoutly,  with  mitres  which  point 

Straight  up  the  corners.     Each  curve  and  joint 

Clear,  and  bold,  and  thin. 

Such  was  Herr  Theodore's  violin. 

Seven  o'clock,  the  Concert-Meister  gone 
With  his  best  violin,  the  rain  being  stopped, 
Frau  Lotta  in  the  kitchen  sat  alone 
Watching  the  embers  which  the  fire  dropped. 
The  china  shone  upon  the  dresser,  topped 
By  polished  copper  vessels  which  her  skill 
Kept  brightly  burnished.     It  was  very  still. 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  61 

An  air  from  Or/So  hummed  in  her  head. 

Herr  Altgelt  had  been  practising  before 

The  night's  performance.     Charlotta  had  plead 

With  him  to  stay  with  her.     Even  at  the  door 

She'd  begged  him  not  to  go.     "I  do  implore 

You  for  this  evening,  Theodore,"  she  had  said. 

"Leave  them  to-night,  and  stay  with  me  instead." 

"A  silly  poppet !"     Theodore  pinched  her  ear. 

"You'd  like  to  have  our  good  Elector  turn 

Me  out  I  think."     "But,  Theodore,  something  queer 

Ails  me.     Oh,  do  but  notice  how  they  burn, 

My  cheeks  !    The  thunder  worried  me.    You're  stern, 

And  cold,  and  only  love  your  work,  I  know. 

But  Theodore,  for  this  evening,  do  not  go." 

But  he  had  gone,  hurriedly  at  the  end, 

For  she  had  kept  him  talking.     Now  she  sat 


62  MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS 

Alone  again,  always  alone,  the  trend 

Of  all  her  thinking  brought  her  back  to  that 

She  wished  to  banish.     What  would  life  be  ?     What  ? 

For  she  was  young,  and  loved,  while  he  was  moved 

Only  by  music.     Each  day  that  was  proved. 

Each  day  he  rose  and  practised.     While  he  played, 
She  stopped  her  work  and  listened,  and  her  heart 
Swelled  painfully  beneath  her  bodice.     Swayed 
And  longing,  she  would  hide  from  him  her  smart. 
"Well,  Lottchen,  will  that  do?"     Then  what  a  start 
She  gave,  and  she  would  run  to  him  and  cry, 
And  he  would  gently  chide  her,  "Fie,  Dear,  fie. 

I'm  glad  I  played  it  well.     But  such  a  taking  ! 
You'll  hear  the  thing  enough  before  I've  done." 
And  she  would  draw  away  from  him,  still  shaking. 
Had  he  but  guessed  she  was  another  one, 


MEN,   WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  63 

Another  violin.     Her  strings  were  aching, 
Stretched  to  the  touch  of  his  bow  hand,  again 
He  played  and  she  almost  broke  at  the  strain. 

• 

Where  was  the  use  of  thinking  of  it  now, 
Sitting  alone  and  listening  to  the  clock ! 
She'd  best  make  haste  and  knit  another  row. 
Three  hours  at  least  must  pass  before  his  knock 
Would  startle  her.     It  always  was  a  shock. 
She  listened — listened  —  for  so  long  before, 
That  when  it  came  her  hearing  almost  tore. 

She  caught  herself  just  starting  in  to  listen. 

What  nerves  she  had  :  rattling  like  brittle  sticks ! 

She  wandered  to  the  window,  for  the  glisten 

Of  a  bright  moon  was  tempting.     Snuffed  the  wicks 

Of  her  two  candles.     Still  she  could  not  fix 

To  anything.     The  moon  in  a  broad  swath 

Beckoned  her  out  and  down  the  garden-path. 


64  MEN,   WOMEN  AND   GHOSTS 

Against  the  house,  her  hollyhocks  stood  high 

And  black,  their  shadows  doubling  them.     The  night 

Was  white,  and  still  with  moonlight,  and  a  sigh 

Of  blowing  leaves  was  there,  and  the  dim  flight 

Of  insects,  and  the  smell  of  aconite, 

And  stocks,  and  Marvel  of  Peru.     She  flitted 

Along  the  path,  where  blocks  of  shadow  pitted 

The  even  flags.     She  let  herself  go  dreaming 

Of  Theodore  her  husband,  and  the  tune 

From  OrfSo  swam  through  her  mind,  but  seeming 

Changed  —  shriller.     Of  a  sudden,  the  clear  moon 

Showed  her  a  passer-by,  inopportune 

Indeed,  but  here  he  was,  whistling  and  striding. 

Lotta  squeezed  in  between  the  currants,  hiding. 

"  The  best  laid  plans  of  mice  and  men,"  alas ! 
The  stranger  came  indeed,  but  did  not  pass. 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS  65 

Instead,  he  leant  upon  the  garden-gate, 
Folding  his  arms  and  whistling.     Lotta's  state, 
Crouched  in  the  prickly  currants,  on  wet  grass, 
Was  far  from  pleasant.     Still  the  stranger  stayed, 
And  Lotta  in  her  currants  watched,  dismayed. 

He  seemed  a  proper  fellow  standing  there 
In  the  bright  moonshine.     His  cocked  hat  was  laced 
With  silver,  and  he  wore  his  own  brown  hair 
Tied,  but  unpowdered.     His  whole  bearing  graced 
A  fine  cloth  coat,  and  ruffled  shirt,  and  chased 
Sword-hilt.     Charlotta  looked,  but  her  position 
Was  hardly  easy.     When  would  his  volition 

Suggest  his  walking  on  ?     And  then  that  tune ! 
A  half-a-dozen  bars  from  Orf£o 

Gone  over  and  over,  and  murdered.     What  Fortune 
Had  brought  him  there  to  stare  about  him  so  ? 

"  Ach,  Gott  im  Himmel !     Why  will  he  not  go  !" 
p 


66  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

Thought  Lotta,  but  the  young  man  whistled  on, 
And  seemed  in  no  great  hurry  to  be  gone. 

Charlotta,  crouched  among  the  currant  bushes, 
Watched  the  moon  slowly  dip  from  twig  to  twig. 
If  Theodore  should  chance  to  come,  and  blushes 
Streamed  over  her.     He  would  not  care  a  fig, 
He'd  only  laugh.     She  pushed  aside  a  sprig 
Of  sharp-edged  leaves  and  peered,  then  she  uprose 
Amid  her  bushes.     "Sir,"  said  she,  "pray  whose 

Garden  do  you  suppose  you're  watching  ?     Why 
Do  you  stand  there  ?     I  really  must  insist 
Upon  your  leaving.     'Tis  unmannerly 
To  stay  so  long."     The  young  man  gave  a  twist 
And  turned  about,  and  in  the  amethyst 
Moonlight  he  saw  her  like  a  nymph  half -risen 
From  the  green  bushes  which  had  been  her  prison. 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  67 

He  swept  his  hat  off  in  a  hurried  bow. 
"Your  pardon,  Madam,  I  had  no  idea 
I  was  not  quite  alone,  and  that  is  how 
I  came  to  stay.     My  trespass  was  not  sheer 
Impertinence.     I  thought  no  one  was  here, 
And  really  gardens  cry  to  be  admired. 
To-night  especially  it  seemed  required. 

And  may  I  beg  to  introduce  myself  ? 

Heinrich  Marohl  of  Munich.     And  your  name?" 

Charlotta  told  him.     And  the  artful  elf 

Promptly  exclaimed  about  her  husband's  fame. 

So  Lotta,  half-unwilling,  slowly  came 

To  conversation  with  him.     When  she  went 

Into  the  house,  she  found  the  evening  spent. 

Theodore  arrived  quite  wearied  out  and  teased. 
With  all  excitement  in  him  burned  away. 


68  MEN,    WOMEN   AND   GHOSTS 

It  had  gone  well,  he  said,  the  audience  pleased, 
And  he  had  played  his  very  best  to-day, 
But  afterwards  he  had  been  forced  to  stay 
And  practise  with  the  stupid  ones.     His  head 
Ached  furiously,  and  he  must  get  to  bed. 

PART  SECOND 

Herr  Concert-Meister  Altgelt  played, 

And  the  four  strings  of  his  violin 

Were  spinning  like  bees  on  a  day  in  Spring. 

The  notes  rose  into  the  wide  sun-mote 

Which  slanted  through  the  window, 

They  lay  like  coloured  beads  a-row, 

They  knocked  together  and  parted, 

And  started  to  dance, 

Skipping,  tripping,  each  one  slipping 

Under  and  over  the  others  so 

That  the  polychrome  fire  streamed  like  a  lance 

Or  a  comet's  tail, 

Behind  them. 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND   GHOSTS  69 

Then  a  wail  arose  —  crescendo  — 

And  dropped  from  off  the  end  of  the  bow, 

And  the  dancing  stopped. 

A  scent  of  lilies  filled  the  room, 

Long  and  slow.     Each  large  white  bloom 

Breathed  a  sound  which  was  holy  perfume  from 

a  blessed  censer, 
And  the  hum  of  an  organ  tone, 
And  they  waved  like  fans  in  a  hall  of  stone 
Over  a  bier  standing  there  in  the  centre,  alone. 
Each  lily  bent  slowly  as  it  was  blown. 
Like  smoke  they  rose  from  the  violin  — 
Then  faded  as  a  swifter  bowing 
Jumbled  the  notes  like  wavelets  flowing 
In  a  splashing,  pashing,  rippling  motion 
Between  broad  meadows  to  an  ocean 
Wide  as  a  day  and  blue  as  a  flower, 
Where  every  hour 


70  MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS 

Gulls  dipped,  and  scattered,  and  squawked,  and 

squealed, 

And  over  the  marshes  the  Angelus  pealed, 
And  the  prows  of  the  fishing-boats  were  spattered 
With  spray. 

And  away  a  couple  of  frigates  were  starting 
To  race  to  Java  with  all  sails  set, 
Topgallants,  and  royals,  and  stunsails,  and  jibs, 
And  wide  moonsails ;   and  the  shining  rails 
Were  polished  so  bright  they  sparked  in  the  sun. 
All  the  sails  went  up  with  a  run  : 

"They  call  me  Hanging  Johnny, 

Away-i-oh ; 
They  call  me  Hanging  Johnny, 

So  hang,  boys,  hang." 

And  the  sun  had  set  and  the  high  moon  whitened. 
And  the  ship  heeled  over  to  the  breeze. 
He  drew  her  into  the  shade  of  the  sails. 
And  whispered  tales 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  71 

Of  voyages  in  the  China  seas, 

And  his  arm  around  her 

Held  and  bound  her. 

She  almost  swooned, 

With  the  breeze  and  the  moon 

And  the  slipping  sea, 

And  he  beside  her, 

Touching  her,  leaning  — 

The  ship  careening, 

With  the  white  moon  steadily  shining  over 

Her  and  her  lover, 

Theodore,  still  her  lover ! 

Then  a  quiver  fell  on  the  crowded  notes, 

And  slowly  floated 

A  single  note  which  spread  and  spread 

Till  it  filled  the  room  with  a  shimmer  like  gold, 

And  noises  shivered  throughout  its  length, 

And  tried  its  strength. 


72  MEN,   WOMEN  AND   GHOSTS 

They  pulled  it,  and  tore  it, 
And  the  stuff  waned  thinner,  but  still  it  bore  it. 
Then  a  wide  rent 
Split  the  arching  tent, 
And  balls  of  fire  spurted  through, 
Spitting  yellow,  and  mauve,  and  blue. 
One  by  one  they  were  quenched  as  they  fell, 
Only  the  blue  burned  steadily. 
Paler  and  paler  it  grew,  and  —  faded  —  away. 
Herr  Altgelt  stopped. 

"Well,  Lottachen,  my  Dear,  what  do  you  say? 

I  think  I'm  in  good  trim.     Now  let's  have  dinner. 

What's  this,  my  Love,  you're  very  sweet  to-day. 

I  wonder  how  it  happens  I'm  the  winner 

Of  so  much  sweetness.     But  I  think  you're  thinner ; 

You're  like  a  bag  of  feathers  on  my  knee. 

Why,  Lotta  child,  you're  almost  strangling  me. 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS  73 

I'm  glad  you're  going  out  this  afternoon. 
The  days  are  getting  short,  and  I'm  so  tied 
At  the  Court  Theatre  my  poor  little  bride 
Has  not  much  junketing  I  fear,  but  soon 
I'll  ask  our  manager  to  grant  a  boon. 
To-night,  perhaps,  I'll  get  a  pass  for  you, 
And  when  I  go,  why  Lotta  can  come  too. 

Now  dinner,  Love.     I  want  some  onion  soup 

To  whip  me  up  till  that  rehearsal's  over. 

You  know  it's  odd  how  some  women  can  stoop ! 

Fraulein  Gebnitz  has  taken  on  a  lover, 

A  Jew  named  Goldstein.     No  one  can  discover 

If  it's  his  money.     But  she  lives  alone 

Practically.     Gebnitz  is  a  stone, 

Pores  over  books  all  day,  and  has  no  ear 

For  his  wife's  singing.     Artists  must  have  men ; 


74  MEN,   WOMEN  AND   GHOSTS 

They  need  appreciation.     But  it's  queer 
What  messes  people  make  of  their  lives,  when 
They  should  know  more.     If  Gebnitz  finds  out,  then 
His  wife  will  pack.     Yes,  shut  the  door  at  once. 
I  did  not  feel  it  cold,  I  am  a  dunce." 

Frau  Altgelt  tied  her  bonnet  on  and  went 
Into  the  streets.     A  bright,  crisp  Autumn  wind 
Flirted  her  skirts  and  hair.     A  turbulent, 
Audacious  wind  it  was,  now  close  behind, 
Pushing  her  bonnet  forward  till  it  twined 
The  strings  across  her  face,  then  from  in  front 
Slantingly  swinging  at  her  with  a  shunt, 

Until  she  lay  against  it,  struggling,  pushing, 
Dismayed  to  find  her  clothing  tightly  bound 
Around  her,  every  fold  and  wrinkle  crushing 
Itself  upon  her,  so  that  she  was  wound 
In  draperies  as  clinging  as  those  found 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND   GHOSTS  75 

Sucking  about  a  sea  nymph  on  the  frieze 
Of  some  old  Grecian  temple.    In  the  breeze 

The  shops  and  houses  had  a  quality 
Of  hard  and  dazzling  colour ;   something  sharp 
And  buoyant,  like  white,  puffing  sails  at  sea. 
The  city  streets  were  twanging  like  a  harp. 
Charlotta  caught  the  movement,  skippingly 
She  blew  along  the  pavement,  hardly  knowing 
Toward  what  destination  she  was  going. 

She  fetched  up  opposite  a  jeweller's  shop, 
Where  filigreed  tiaras  shone  like  crowns, 
And  necklaces  of  emeralds  seemed  to  drop 
And  then  float  up  again  with  lightness.     Browns 
Of  striped  agates  struck  her  like  cold  frowns 
Amid  the  gaiety  of  topaz  seals, 

Carved  though  they  were  with  heads,  and  arms,  and 
wheels. 


76  MEN,    WOMEN   AND   GHOSTS 

A  row  of  pencils  knobbed  with  quartz  or  sard 
Delighted  her.     And  rings  of  every  size 
Turned  smartly  round  like  hoops  before  her  eyes, 
Amethyst-flamed  or  ruby-girdled,  jarred 
To  spokes  and  flashing  triangles,  and  starred 
Like  rockets  bursting  on  a  festal  day. 
Charlotta  could  not  tear  herself  away. 

With  eyes  glued  tightly  on  a  golden  box, 
Whose  rare  enamel  piqued  her  with  its  hue, 
Changeable,  iridescent,  shuttlecocks 
Of  shades  and  lustres  always  darting  through 
Its  level,  superimposing  sheet  of  blue, 
Charlotta  did  not  hear  footsteps  approaching. 
She  started  at  the  words  :   "Am  I  encroaching  ? " 

"Oh,  Heinrich,  how  you  frightened  me !     I  thought 
We  were  to  meet  at  three,  is  it  quite  that  ?  " 
"No,  it  is  not,"  he  answered,  "but  I've  caught 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  77 

The  trick  of  missing  you.     One  thing  is  flat, 
I  cannot  go  on  this  way.     Life  is  what 
Might  best  be  conjured  up  by  the  word  :   'Hell.' 
Dearest,  when  will  you  come?"     Lotta,  to  quell 

His  effervescence,  pointed  to  the  gems 
Within  the  window,  asked  him  to  admire 
A  bracelet  or  a  buckle.     But  one  stems 
Uneasily  the  burning  of  a  fire. 
Heinrich  was  chafing,  pricked  by  his  desire. 
Little  by  little  she  wooed  him  to  her  mood 
Until  at  last  he  promised  to  be  good. 

But  here  he  started  on  another  tack ; 

To  buy  a  jewel,  which  one  would  Lotta  choose. 

She  vainly  urged  against  him  all  her  lack 

Of  other  trinkets.     Should  she  dare  to  use 

A  ring  or  brooch  her  husband  might  accuse 

Her  of  extravagance,  and  ask  to  see 

A  strict  accounting,  or  still  worse  might  be. 


78  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

But  Heinrich  would  not  be  persuaded.     Why 

Should  he  not  give  her  what  he  liked  ?     And  in 

He  went,  determined  certainly  to  buy 

A  thing  so  beautiful  that  it  would  win 

Her  wavering  fancy.     Atlgelt's  violin 

He  would  outscore  by  such  a  handsome  jewel 

That  Lotta  could  no  longer  be  so  cruel ! 

Pity  Charlotta,  torn  in  diverse  ways. 

If  she  went  in  with  him,  the  shopman  might 

Recognize  her,  give  her  her  name ;  in  days 

To  come  he  could  denounce  her.     In  her  fright 

She  almost  fled.     But  Heinrich  would  be  quite 

Capable  of  pursuing.     By  and  by 

She  pushed  the  door  and  entered  hurriedly. 

It  took  some  pains  to  keep  him  from  bestowing 
A  pair  of  ruby  earrings,  carved  like  roses, 
The  setting  twined  to  represent  the  growing 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  79 

Tendrils  and  leaves,  upon  her.     "Who  supposes 
I  could  obtain  such  things !     It  simply  closes 
All  comfort  for  me."     So  he  changed  his  mind 
And  bought  as  slight  a  gift  as  he  could  find. 

A  locket,  frosted  over  with  seed  pearls, 
Oblong  and  slim,  for  wearing  at  the  neck, 
Or  hidden  in  the  bosom  ;  their  joined  curls 
Should  lie  in  it.     And  further  to  bedeck 
His  love,  Heinrich  had  picked  a  whiff,  a  fleck, 
The  merest  puff  of  a  thin,  linked  chain 
To  hang  it  from.     Lotta  could  not  refrain 

From  weeping  as  they  sauntered  down  the  street. 

She  did  not  want  the  locket,  yet  she  did. 

To  have  him  love  her  she  found  very  sweet, 

But  it  is  hard  to  keep  love  always  hid. 

Then  there  was  something  in  her  heart  which  chid 

Her,  told  her  she  loved  Theodore  in  him, 

That  all  these  meetings  were  a  foolish  whim. 


80  MEN,    WOMEN   AND   GHOSTS 

She  thought  of  Theodore  and  the  life  they  led, 
So  near  together,  but  so  little  mingled. 
The  great  clouds  bulged  and  bellied  overhead, 
And  the  fresh  wind  about  her  body  tingled ; 
The  crane  of  a  large  warehouse  creaked  and  jingled 
Charlotta  held  her  breath  for  very  fear, 
About  her  in  the  street  she  seemed  to  hear : 
"They  call  me  Hanging  Johnny, 

Away-i-oh ; 
They  call  me  Hanging  Johnny, 

So  hang,  boys,  hang." 

And  it  was  Theodore,  under  the  racing  skies, 
Who  held  her  and  who  whispered  in  her  ear. 
She  knew  her  heart  was  telling  her  no  lies, 
Beating  and  hammering.     He  was  so  dear, 
The  touch  of  him  would  send  her  in  a  queer 
Swoon  that  was  half  an  ecstasy.     And  yearning 
For  Theodore,  she  wandered,  slowly  turning 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  81 

Street  after  street  as  Heinrich  wished  it  so. 
He  had  some  aim,  she  had  forgotten  what. 
Their  progress  was  confused  and  very  slow, 
But  at  the  last  they  reached  a  lonely  spot, 
A  garden  far  above  the  highest  shot 
Of  soaring  steeple.     At  their  feet,  the  town 
Spread  open  like  a  chequer-board  laid  down. 

Lotta  was  dimly  conscious  of  the  rest, 
Vaguely  remembered  how  he  clasped  the  chain 
About  her  neck.     She  treated  it  in  jest, 
And  saw  his  face  cloud  over  with  sharp  pain. 
Then  suddenly  she  felt  as  though  a  strain 
Were  put  upon  her,  collared  like  a  slave, 
Leashed  in  the  meshes  of  this  thing  he  gave. 

She  seized  the  flimsy  rings  with  both  her  hands 
To  snap  it,  but  they  held  with  odd  persistence. 
Her  eyes  were  blinded  by  two  wind-blown  strands 


82  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

Of  hair  which  had  been  loosened.     Her  resistance 
Melted  within  her,  from  remotest  distance, 
Misty,  unreal,  his  face  grew  warm  and  near, 
And  giving  way  she  knew  him  very  dear. 

For  long  he  held  her,  and  they  both  gazed  down 
At  the  wide  city,  and  its  blue,  bridged  river. 
From  wooing  he  jested  with  her,  snipped  the  blown 
Strands  of  her  hair,  and  tied  them  with  a  sliver 
Cut  from  his  own  head.     But  she  gave  a  shiver 
When,  opening  the  locket,  they  were  placed 
Under  the  glass,  commingled  and  enlaced. 

"When  will  you  have  it  so  with  us?"     He  sighed. 
She  shook  her  head.     He  pressed  her  further.     "No, 
No,  Heinrich,  Theodore  loves  me,"  and  she  tried 
To  free  herself  and  rise.     He  held  her  so, 
Clipped  by  his  arms,  she  could  not  move  nor  go. 
"But  you  love  me,"  he  whispered,  with  his  face 
Burning  against  her  through  her  kerchief's  lace. 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND   GHOS'iS  83 

Frau  Altgelt  knew  she  toyed  with  fire,  knew 
That  what  her  husband  lit  this  other  man 
Fanned  to  hot  flame.     She  told  herself  that  few 
Women  were  so  discreet  as  she,  who  ran 
No  danger  since  she  knew  what  things  to  ban. 
She  opened  her  house  door  at  five  o'clock, 
A  short  half-hour  before  her  husband's  knock. 

PART  THIRD 

The  Residenz-T heater  sparked  and  hummed 
With  lights  and  people.     Gebnitz  was  to  sing, 
That  rare  soprano.     All  the  fiddles  strummed 
With  tuning  up ;  the  wood-winds  made  a  ring 
Of  reedy  bubbling  noises,  and  the  sting 
Of  sharp,  red  brass  pierced  every  ear-drum ;  patting 
From  muffled  tympani  made  a  dark  slatting 

Across  the  silver  shimmering  of  flutes ; 
A  bassoon  grunted,  and  an  oboe  wailed ; 


84  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

The  'celli  pizzicato-ed  like  great  lutes, 
And  mutterings  of  double  basses  trailed 
Away  to  silence,  while  loud  harp-strings  hailed 
Their  thin,  bright  colours  down  in  such  a  scatter 
They  lost  themselves  amid  the  general  clatter. 

Frau  Altgelt  in  the  gallery,  alone, 
Felt  lifted  up  into  another  world. 
Before  her  eyes  a  thousand  candles  shone 
In  the  great  chandeliers.     A  maze  of  curled 
And  powdered  periwigs  past  her  eyes  swirled. 
She  smelt  the  smoke  of  candles  guttering, 
And  caught  the  glint  of  jewelled  fans  fluttering 

All  round  her  in  the  boxes.     Red  and  gold, 
The  house,  like  rubies  set  in  filigree, 
Filliped  the  candlelight  about,  and  bold 
Young  sparks  with  eye-glasses,  unblushingly 
Ogled  fair  beauties  in  the  balcony. 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS  85 

An  officer  went  by,  his  steel  spurs  jangling. 
Behind  Charlotta  an  old  man  was  wrangling 

About  a  play-bill  he  had  bought  and  lost. 

Three  drunken  soldiers  had  to  be  ejected. 

Frau  Altgelt's  eyes  stared  at  the  vacant  post 

Of  Concert-Meister,  she  at  once  detected 

The  stir  which  brought  him.     But  she  felt  neglected 

When  with  no  glance  about  him  or  her  way, 

He  lifted  up  his  violin  to  play. 

The  curtain  went  up  ?     Perhaps.     If  so, 

Charlotta  never  saw  it  go. 

The  famous  Fraulein  Gebnitz'  singing 

Only  came  to  her  like  the  ringing 

Of  bells  at  a  festa 

Which  swing  in  the  air 

And  nobody  realizes  they  are  there. 

They  jingle  and  jangle, 


86  MEN,   WOMEN  AND   GHOSTS 

And  clang,  and  bang, 

And  never  a  soul  could  tell  whether  they  rang, 

For  the  plopping  of  guns  and  rockets 

And  the  chinking  of  silver  to  spend,  in  one's 

pockets, 

And  the  shuffling  and  clapping  of  feet, 
And  the  loud  flapping 
Of  flags,  with  the  drums, 
As  the  military  comes. 
It's  a  famous  tune  to  walk  to, 
And  I  wonder  where  they're  off  to. 
Step-step-stepping  to  the  beating  of  the  drums. 
But  the  rhythm  changes  as  though  a  mist 
Were  curling  and  twisting 
Over  the  landscape. 

For  a  moment  a  rhythmless,  tuneless  fog 
Encompasses  her.     Then  her  senses  jog 
To  the  breath  of  a  stately  minuet. 
Herr  Altgelt's  violin  is  set 
In  tune  to  the  slow,  sweeping  bows,  and  retreats 

and  advances, 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS  87 

To  curtsies  brushing  the  waxen  floor  as  the  Court 
dances. 

Long  and  peaceful  like  warm  Summer  nights 

When  stars  shine  in  the  quiet  river.  And  against 
the  lights 

Blundering  insects  knock, 

And  the  Rathaus  clock 

Booms  twice,  through  the  shrill  sounds 

Of  flutes  and  horns  in  the  lamplit  grounds. 

Pressed  against  him  in  the  mazy  wavering 

Of  a  country  dance,  with  her  short  breath  quaver 
ing 

She  leans  upon  the  beating,  throbbing 

Music.     Laughing,  sobbing, 

Feet  gliding  after  sliding  feet ; 

His  —  hers  — 

The  ballroom  blurs  — 

She  feels  the  air 

Lifting  her  hair, 

And  the  lapping  of  water  on  the  stone  stair. 


88  MEN,    WOMEN   AND   GHOSTS 

He  is  there  !     He  is  there  ! 

Twang  harps,  and  squeal,  you  thin  violins, 

That  the  dancers  may  dance,  and  never  discover 

The  old  stone  stair  leading  down  to  the  river 

With  the  chestnut-tree  branches  hanging  over 

Her  and  her  lover. 

Theodore,  still  her  lover ! 

The  evening  passed  like  this,  in  a  half  faint, 

Delirium  with  waking  intervals 

Which  were  the  entr'acts.     Under  the  restraint 

Of  a  large  company,  the  constant  calls 

For  oranges  or  syrops  from  the  stalls 

Outside,  the  talk,  the  passing  to  and  fro, 

Lotta  sat  ill  at  ease,  incognito. 

She  heard  the  Gebnitz  praised,  the  tenor  lauded, 

The  music  vaunted  as  most  excellent. 

The  scenery  and  the  costumes  were  applauded, 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  89 

The  latter  it  was  whispered  had  been  sent 
From  Italy.     The  Herr  Direktor  spent 
A  fortune  on  them,  so  the  gossips  said. 
Charlotta  felt  a  lightness  in  her  head. 

When  the  next  act  began,  her  eyes  were  swimming, 
Her  prodded  ears  were  aching  and  confused. 
The  first  notes  from  the  orchestra  sent  skimming 
Her  outward  consciousness.     Her  brain  was  fused 
Into  the  music,  Theodore's  music  !     Used 
To  hear  him  play,  she  caught  his  single  tone. 
For  all  she  noticed  they  two  were  alone. 

PART  FOURTH 

Frau  Altgelt  waited  in  the  chilly  street, 
Hustled  by  lackney  who  ran  up  and  down 
Shouting  their  coachmen's  names ;   forced  to  retreat 
A  pace  or  two  by  lurching  chairmen ;   thrown 
Rudely  aside  by  linkboys ;  boldly  shown 


90  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

The  ogling  rapture  in  two  bleary  eyes 
Thrust  close  to  hers  in  most  unpleasant  wise. 

Escaping  these,  she  hit  a  liveried  arm, 

Was  sworn  at  by  this  glittering  gentleman 

And  ordered  off.     However,  no  great  harm 

Came  to  her.     But  she  looked  a  trifle  wan 

When  Theodore,  her  belated  guardian, 

Emerged.     She  snuggled  up  against  him,  trembling, 

Half  out  of  fear,  half  out  of  the  assembling 

Of  all  the  thoughts  and  needs  his  playing  had  given. 

Had  she  enjoyed  herself,  he  wished  to  know. 

"Oh !  Theodore,  can't  you  feel  that  it  was  Heaven  ! ' 

"Heaven  !     My  Lottachen,  and  was  it  so  ? 

Gebnitz  was  in  good  voice,  but  all  the  flow 

Of  her  last  aria  was  spoiled  by  Klops, 

A  wretched  flutist,  she  was  mad  as  hops." 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  91 

He  was  so  simple,  so  matter-of-fact, 

Charlotta  Altgelt  knew  not  what  to  say 

To  bring  him  to  her  dream.     His  lack  of  tact 

Kept  him  explaining  all  the  homeward  way 

How  this  thing  had  gone  well,  that  badly.     "Stay, 

Theodore  !"  she  cried  at  last.     "You  know  to  me 

Nothing  was  real,  it  was  an  ecstasy." 

And  he  was  heartily  glad  she  had  enjoyed 
Herself  so  much,  and  said  so.     "But  it's  good 
To  be  got  home  again."     He  was  employed 
In  looking  at  his  violin,  the  wood 
Was  old,  and  evening  air  did  it  no  good. 
But  when  he  drew  up  to  the  table  for  tea 
Something  about  his  wife's  vivacity 

Struck  him  as  hectic,  worried  him  in  short. 

He  talked  of  this  and  that  but  watched  her  close. 

Tea  over,  he  endeavoured  to  extort 


92  MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS 

The  cause  of  her  excitement.     She  arose 
And  stood  beside  him,  trying  to  compose 
Herself,  all  whipt  to  quivering,  curdled  life, 
And  he,  poor  fool,  misunderstood  his  wife. 

Suddenly,  broken  through  her  anxious  grasp, 
Her  music -kindled  love  crashed  on  him  there. 
Amazed,  he  felt  her  fling  against  him,  clasp 
Her  arms  about  him,  weighing  down  his  chair, 
Sobbing  out  all  her  hours  of  despair. 
"Theodore,  a  woman  needs  to  hear  things  proved. 
Unless  you  tell  me,  I  feel  I'm  not  loved." 

Theodore  went  under  in  this  tearing  wave, 

He  yielded  to  it,  and  its  headlong  flow 

Filled  him  with  all  the  energy  she  gave. 

He  was  a  youth  again,  and  this  bright  glow, 

This  living,  vivid  joy  he  had  to  show 

Her  what  she  was  to  him.     Laughing  and  crying, 

She  asked  assurances  there's  no  denying. 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

Over  and  over  again  her  questions,  till 

He  quite  convinced  her,  every  now  and  then 

She  kissed  him,  shivering  as  though  doubting  still. 

But  later  when  they  were  composed  and  when 

She  dared  relax  her  probings,  "Lottachen," 

He  asked,  "how  is  it  your  love  has  withstood 

My  inadvertence  ?     I  was  made  of  wood." 

She  told  him,  and  no  doubt  she  meant  it  truly, 
That  he  was  sun,  and  grass,  and  wind,  and  sky 
To  her.     And  even  if  conscience  were  unruly 
She  salved  it  by  neat  sophistries,  but  why 
Suppose  her  insincere,  it  was  no  lie 
She  said,  for  Heinrich  was  as  much  forgot 
As  though  he'd  never  been  within  earshot. 

But  Theodore's  hands  in  straying  and  caressing 

Fumbled  against  the  locket  where  it  lay 

Upon  her  neck.     "What  is  this  thing  I'm  pressing?" 


94  MEN,   WOMEN  AND   GHOSTS 

He  asked.     "Let's  bring  it  to  the  light  of  day." 
He  lifted  up  the  locket.     "It  should  stay 
Outside,  my  Dear.     Your  mother  has  good  taste. 
To  keep  it  hidden  surely  is  a  waste." 

Pity  again  Charlotta,  straight  aroused 

Out  of  her  happiness.    The  locket  brought 

A  chilly  jet  of  truth  upon  her,  soused 

Under  its  icy  spurting  she  was  caught, 

And  choked,  and  frozen.     Suddenly  she  sought 

The  clasp,  but  with  such  art  was  this  contrived 

Her  fumbling  fingers  never  once  arrived 

Upon  it.    Feeling,  twisting,  round  and  round, 

She  pulled  the  chain  quite  through  the  locket's  ring 

And  still  it  held.     Her  neck,  encompassed,  bound, 

Chafed  at  the  sliding  meshes.     Such  a  thing 

To  hurl  her  out  of  joy !     A  gilded  string 

Binding  her  folly  to  her,  and  those  curls 

Which  lay  entwined  beneath  the  clustered  pearls ! 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND   GHOSTS  95 

Again  she  tried  to  break  the  cord.     It  stood. 
"Unclasp  it,  Theodore,"  she  begged.     But  he 
Refused,  and  being  in  a  happy  mood, 
Twitted  her  with  her  inefficiency, 
Then  looking  at  her  very  seriously : 
"I  think,  Charlotta,  it  is  well  to  have 
Always  about  one  what  a  mother  gave. 

As  she  has  taken  the  great  pains  to  send 

This  jewel  to  you  from  Dresden,  it  will  be 

Ingratitude  if  you  do  not  intend 

To  carry  it  about  you  constantly. 

With  her  fine  taste  you  cannot  disagree, 

The  locket  is  most  beautifully  designed." 

He  opened  it  and  there  the  durls  were,  twined. 

Charlotta's  heart  dropped  beats  like  knitting-stitches. 
She  burned  a  moment,  flaming ;   then  she  froze. 
Her  face  was  jerked  by  little,  nervous  twitches, 


96  MEN,   WOMEN  AND   GHOSTS 

She  heard  her  husband  asking  :   "What  are  those  ? " 
Put  out  her  hand  quickly  to  interpose, 
But  stopped,  the  gesture  half-complete,  astounded 
At  the  calm  way  the  question  was  propounded. 

"A  pretty  fancy,  Dear,  I  do  declare. 

Indeed  I  will  not  let  you  put  it  off. 

A  lovely  thought :  yours  and  your  mother's  hair  !" 

Charlotta  hid  a  gasp  under  a  cough. 

"Never  with  my  connivance  shall  you  doff 

This  charming  gift."     He  kissed  her  on  the  cheek, 

And  Lotta  suffered  him,  quite  crushed  and  meek. 

When  later  in  their  room  she  lay  awake, 
Watching  the  moonlight  slip  along  the  floor, 
She  felt  the  chain  and  wept  for  Theodore's  sake. 
She  had  loved  Heinrich  also,  and  the  core 
Of  truth,  unlovely,  startled  her.     Wherefore 
She  vowed  from  now  to  break  this  double  life 
And  see  herself  only  as  Theodore's  wife. 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  97 

PART  FIFTH 

It  was  no  easy  matter  to  convince 

Heinrich  that  it  was  finished.     Hard  to  say 

That  though  they  could  not  meet  (he  saw  her  wince) 

She  still  must  keep  the  locket  to  allay 

Suspicion  in  her  husband.     She  would  pay 

Him  from  her  savings  bit  by  bit  —  the  oath 

He  swore  at  that  was  startling  to  them  both. 

Her  resolution  taken,  Frau  Altgelt 

Adhered  to  it,  and  suffered  no  regret. 

She  found  her  husband  all  that  she  had  felt 

His  music  to  contain.     Her  days  were  set 

In  his  as  though  she  were  an  amulet 

Cased  in  bright  gold.     She  joyed  in  her  confining ; 

Her  eyes  put  out  her  looking-glass  with  shining. 


98  MEN,   WOMEN  AND   GHOSTS 

Charlotta  was  so  gay  that  old,  dull  tasks 

Were  furbished  up  to  seem  like  rituals. 

She  baked  and  brewed  as  one  who  only  asks 

The  right  to  serve.     Her  daily  manuals 

Of  prayer  were  duties,  and  her  festivals 

When  Theodore  praised  some  dish,  or  frankly  said 

She  had  a  knack  in  making  up  a  bed. 

So  Autumn  went,  and  all  the  mountains  round 
The  city  glittered  white  with  fallen  snow, 
For  it  was  Winter.     Over  the  hard  ground 
Herr  Altgelt's  footsteps  came,  each  one  a  blow. 
On  the  swept  flags  behind  the  currant  row 
Charlotta  stood  to  greet  him.     But  his  lip 
Only  flicked  hers.     His  Concert-Meistership 

Was  first  again.     This  evening  he  had  got 
Important  news.     The  opera  ordered  from 


MEN,   WOMEN  AWB 

Young  Mozart  was  arrived.     That  old  despot, 
The  Bishop  of  Salzburg,  had  let  him  come 
Himself  to  lead  it,  and  the  parts,  still  hot 
From  copying,  had  been  tried  over.    Never 
Had  any  music  started  such  a  fever. 

The  orchestra  had  cheered  till  they  were  hoarse, 
The  singers  clapped  and  clapped.    The  town  was  made, 
With  such  a  great  attraction  through  the  course 
Of  Carnival  time.     In  what  utter  shade 
All  other  cities  would  be  left !    The  trade 
In  music  would  all  drift  here  naturally. 
In  his  excitement  he  forgot  his  tea. 

Lotta  was  forced  to  take  his  cup  and  put 
It  in  his  hand.     But  still  he  rattled  on, 
Sipping  at  intervals.     The  new  catgut 
Strings  he  was  using  gave  out  such  a  tone 
The  "Maestro"  had  remarked  it,  and  had  gone 


^  "WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

Out  of  his  way  to  praise  him.     Lotta  smiled, 
He  was  as  happy  as  a  little  child. 

From  that  day  on,  Herr  Altgelt,  more  and  more, 
Absorbed  himself  in  work.    Lotta  at  first 
Was  patient  and  well-wishing.     But  it  wore 
Upon  her  when  two  weeks  had  brought  no  burst 
Of  loving  from  him.     Then  she  feared  the  worst ; 
That  his  short  interest  in  her  was  a  light 
Flared  up  an  instant  only  in  the  night. 

Idomeneo  was  the  opera's  name, 

A  name  that  poor  Charlotta  learnt  to  hate. 

Herr  Altgelt  worked  so  hard  he  seldom  came 

Home  for  his  tea,  and  it  was  very  late, 

Past  midnight  sometimes,  when  he  knocked.    His  state 

Was  like  a  flabby  orange  whose  crushed  skin 

Is  thin  with  pulling,  and  all  dented  in. 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND  ,  GHOSTS  101 

He  practised  every  morning  and  her  heart 

Followed  his  bow.     But  often  she  would  sit, 

While  he  was  playing,  quite  withdrawn  apart, 

Absently  fingering  and  touching  it, 

The  locket,  which  now  seemed  to  her  a  bit 

Of  some  gone  youth.     His  music  drew  her  tears, 

And  through  the  notes  he  played,  her  dreading  ears 

Heard  Heinrich's  voice,  saying  he  had  not  changed ; 

Beer  merchants  had  no  ecstasies  to  take 

Their   minds   off   love.    So   far   her   thoughts   had 

ranged 

Away  from  her  stern  vow,  she  chanced  to  take 
Her  way,  one  morning,  quite  by  a  mistake, 
Along  the  street  where  Heinrich  had  his  shop. 
What  harm  to  pass  it  since  she  should  not  stop  ! 


10&  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

It  matters  nothing  how  one  day  she  met 
Him  on  a  bridge,  and  blushed,  and  hurried  by. 
Nor  how  the  following  week  he  stood  to  let 
Her  pass,  the  pavement  narrowing  suddenly. 
How  once  he  took  her  basket,  and  once  he 
Pulled  back  a  rearing  horse  who  might  have  struck 
Her  with  his  hoofs.     It  seemed  the  oddest  luck 

How  many  times  their  business  took  them  each 
Right  to  the  other.     Then  at  last  he  spoke, 
But  she  would  only  nod,  he  got  no  speech 
From  her.     Next  time  he  treated  it  in  joke, 
And  that  so  lightly  that  her  vow  she  broke 
And  answered.     So  they  drifted  into  seeing 
Each  other  as  before.     There  was  no  fleeing. 

Christmas  was  over  and  the  Carnival 

Was  very  near,  and  tripping  from  each  tongue 

Was  talk  of  the  new  opera.     Each  book-stall 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  103 

Flaunted  it  out  in  bills,  what  airs  were  sung, 
What  singers  hired.     Pictures  of  the  young 

"Maestro"  were  for  sale.     The  town  was  mad. 

i 

Only  Charlotta  felt  depressed  and  sad. 

Each  day  now  brought  a  struggle  'twixt  her  will 
And  Heinrich's.     'Twixt  her  love  for  Theodore 
And  him.     Sometimes  she  wished  to  kill 
Herself  to  solve  her  problem.     For  a  score 
Of  reasons  Heinrich  tempted  her.     He  bore 
Her  moods  with  patience,  and  so  surely  urged 
Himself  upon  her,  she  was  slowly  merged 

Into  his  way  of  thinking,  and  to  fly 

With  him  seemed  easy.     But  next  morning  would 

The  Stradivarius  undo  her  mood. 

Then  she  would  realize  that  she  must  cleave 

Always  to  Theodore.     And  she  would  try 

To  convince  Heinrich  she  should  never  leave, 

And  afterwards  she  would  go  home  and  grieve. 


104  MEN,    WOMEN  AND   GHOSTS 

All  thought  in  Munich  centered  on  the  part 

Of  January  when  there  would  be  given 

Idomeneo  by  Wolfgang  Mozart. 

The  twenty-ninth  was  fixed.     And  all  seats,  even 

Those  almost  at  the  ceiling,  which  were  driven 

Behind  the  highest  gallery,  were  sold. 

The  inches  of  the  theatre  went  for  gold. 

Herr  Altgelt  was  a  shadow  worn  so  thin 
With  work,  he  hardly  printed  black  behind 
The  candle.     He  and  his  old  violin 
Made  up  one  person.     He  was  not  unkind, 
But  dazed  outside  his  playing,  and  the  rind, 
The  pine  and  maple  of  his  fiddle,  guarded 
A  part  of  him  which  he  had  quite  discarded. 

It  woke  in  the  silence  of  frost-bright  nights, 
In  little  lights, 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  105 

Like  will-o'-the-wisps  flickering,  fluttering, 

Here  —  there  — 

Spurting,  sputtering, 

Fading  and  lighting, 

Together,  asunder  — 

Till  Lotta  sat  up  in  bed  with  wonder, 

And  the  faint  grey  patch  of  the  window  shone 

Upon  her  sitting  there,  alone. 

For  Theodore  slept. 

The  twenty-eighth  was  last  rehearsal  day, 

'Twas  called  for  noon,  so  early  morning  meant 

Herr  Altgelt's  only  time  in  which  to  play 

His  part  alone.     Drawn  like  a  monk  who's  spent 

Himself  in  prayer  and  fasting,  Theodore  went 

Into  the  kitchen,  with  a  weary  word 

Of  cheer  to  Lotta,  careless  if  she  heard. 

Lotta  heard  more  than  his  spoken  word. 
She  heard  the  vibrating  of  strings  and  wood. 


106  MEN,    WOMEN  AND   GHOSTS 

She  was  washing  the  dishes,  her  hands  all  suds, 

When  the  sound  began, 

Long  as  the  span 

Of  a  white  road  snaking  about  a  hill. 

The  orchards  are  filled 

With  cherry  blossoms  at  butterfly  poise. 

Hawthorn  buds  are  cracking, 

And  in  the  distance  a  shepherd  is  clacking 

His  shears,  snip-snipping  the  wool  from  his  sheep. 

The  notes  are  asleep, 

Lying  adrift  on  the  air 

In  level  lines 

Like  sunlight  hanging  in  pines  and  pines, 

Strung  and  threaded, 

All  imbedded 

In  the  blue-green  of  the  hazy  pines. 

Lines  —  long,  straight  lines ! 

And  stems, 

Long,  straight  stems 


MEN,   WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS  107 

Pushing  up 

To  the  cup  of  blue,  blue  sky. 

Stems  growing  misty 

With  the  many  of  them, 

Red-green  mist 

Of  the  trees, 

And  these 

Wood-flavoured  notes. 

The  back  is  maple  and  the  belly  is  pine. 

The  rich  notes  twine 

As  though  weaving  in  and  out  of  leaves, 

Broad  leaves 

Flapping  slowly  like  elephants'  ears, 

Waving  and  falling. 

Another  sound  peers 

Through  little  pine  fingers, 

And  lingers,  peeping. 

Ping  !     Ping !     pizzicato,  something  is  cheeping. 

There  is  a  twittering  up  in  the  branches, 


108  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

A  chirp  and  a  lilt, 

And  crimson  atilt  on  a  swaying  twig. 

Wings !     Wings ! 

And  a  little  ruffled-out  throat  which  singSc 

The  forest  bends,  tumultuous 

With  song. 

The  woodpecker  knocks, 

And  the  song-sparrow  trills, 

Every  fir,  and  cedar,  and  yew 

Has  a  nest  or  a  bird, 

It  is  quite  absurd 

To  hear  them  cutting  across  each  other : 

Peewits,  and  thrushes,  and  larks,  all  at  once, 

And  a  loud  cuckoo  is  trying  to  smother 

A  wood-pigeon  perched  on  a  birch, 

"Roo  —  coo  —  oo  —  oo  — " 

"  Cuckoo  !     Cuckoo  !     That's  one  for  you  ! " 

A  blackbird  whistles,  how  sharp,  how  shrill ! 

And  the  great  trees  toss 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  109 

And  leaves  blow  down, 

You  can  almost  hear  them  splash  on  the  ground. 

The  whistle  again : 

It  is  double  and  loud ! 

The  leaves  are  splashing, 

And  water  is  dashing 

Over  those  creepers,  for  they  are  shrouds ; 

And  men  are  running  up  them  to  furl  the  sails, 

For  there  is  a  capful  of  wind  to-day, 

And  we  are  already  well  under  way. 

The  deck  is  aslant  in  the  bubbling  breeze. 

"Theodore,  please. 

Oh,  Dear,  how  you  tease !" 

And  the  boatswain's  whistle  sounds  again, 

And  the  men  pull  on  the  sheets : 

"My  name  is  Hanging  Johnny, 

Away-i-oh ; 
They  call  me  Hanging  Johnny, 

So  hang,  boys,  hang." 


110  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

The  trees  of  the  forest  are  masts,  tall  masts 

They  are  swinging  over 

Her  and  her  lover. 

Almost  swooning 

Under  the  ballooning  canvas, 

She  lies 

Looking  up  in  his  eyes 

As  he  bends  farther  over. 

Theodore,  still  her  lover ! 

The  suds  were  dried  upon  Charlotta's  hands, 
She  leant  against  the  table  for  support, 
Wholly  forgotten.     Theodore's  eyes  were  brands 
Burning  upon  his  music.     He  stopped  short. 
Charlotta  almost  heard  the  sound  of  bands 
Snapping.     She  put  one  hand  up  to  her  heart, 
Her  fingers  touched  the  locket  with  a  start. 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS  111 

Herr  Altgelt  put  his  violin  away 
Listlessly.     "Lotta,  I  must  have  some  rest. 
The  strain  will  be  a  hideous  one  to-day. 
Don't  speak  to  me  at  all.     It  will  be  best 
If  I  am  quiet  till  I  go."     And  lest 
She  disobey,  he  left  her.     On  the  stairs 
She    heard    his    mounting    steps.     What    use    were 
prayers ! 

He  could  not  hear,  he  was  not  there,  for  she 
Was  married  to  a  mummy,  a  machine. 
Her  hand  closed  on  the  locket  bitterly. 
Before  her,  on  a  chair,  lay  the  shagreen 
Case  of  his  violin.     She  saw  the  clean 
Sun  flash  the  open  clasp.     The  locket's  edge 
Cut  at  her  fingers  like  a  pushing  wedge. 


112  MEN,    WOMEN  AND   GHOSTS 

A  heavy  cart  went  by,  a  distant  bell 

Chimed  ten,  the  fire  flickered  in  the  grate. 

she  was  alone.     Her  throat  began  to  swell 

With  sobs.     What  kept  her  here,  why  should  she 

wait  ? 

The  violin  she  had  begun  to  hate 
Lay  in  its  case  before  her.     Here  she  flung 
The  cover  open.     With  the  fiddle  swung 


Over  her  head,  the  hanging  clock's  loud  ticking 
Caught  on  her  ear.     'Twas  slow,  and  as  she  paused 
The  little  door  in  it  came  open,  flicking 
A  wooden  cuckoo  out :   "Cuckoo  !"     It  caused 
The  forest  dream  to  come  again.     "Cuckoo !" 
>•'  .Jt mashed  on  the  grate,  the  violin  broke  in  two. 

(*  Cuckoo !     Cuckoo !"  the  clock  kept  striking  on ; 
3ut  no  one  listened.     Frau  Altgelt  had  gone. 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  113 


THE   CROSS-ROADS 

A  BULLET  through  his  heart  at  dawn.  On  the 
table  a  letter  signed  with  a  woman's  name.  A  wind 
that  goes  howling  round  the  house,  and  weeping  as 
in  shame.  Cold  November  dawn  peeping  through 
the  windows,  cold  dawn  creeping  over  the  floor, 
creeping  up  his  cold  legs,  creeping  over  his  cold  body, 
creeping  across  his  cold  face.  A  glaze  of  thin  yellow 
sunlight  on  the  staring  eyes.  Wind  howling  through 
bent  branches.  A  wind  which  never  dies  down. 
Howling,  wailing.  The  gazing  eyes  glitter  in  the 
sunlight.  The  lids  are  frozen  open  and  the  eyes 
glitter. 

The  thudding  of  a  pick  on  hard  earth.     A  spade 
grinding  and  crunching.     Overhead,  branches  writh 
ing,     winding,     interlacing,     unwinding,     scattering; 
i 


114  MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS 

tortured  twinings,  tossings,  creakings.  Wind  fling 
ing  branches  apart,  drawing  them  together,  whisper 
ing  and  whining  among  them.  A  waning,  lobsided 
moon  cutting  through  black  clouds.  A  stream  of 
pebbles  and  earth  and  the  empty  spade  gleams  clear 
in  the  moonlight,  then  is  rammed  again  into  the 
black  earth.  Tramping  of  feet.  Men  and  horses. 
Squeaking  of  wheels. 

"Whoa!     Ready,  Jim?" 

"All  ready." 

Something  falls,  settles,  is  still.  Suicides  have  no 
coffin. 

"Give  us  the  stake,  Jim.     Now." 

Pound !     Pound ! 

"He'll  never  walk.     Nailed  to  the  ground." 

An  ash  stick  pierces  his  heart,  if  it  buds  the  roots 
will  hold  him.  He  is  a  part  of  the  earth  now,  clay 
to  clay.  Overhead  the  branches  sway,  and  writhe, 
and  twist  in  the  wind.  He'll  never  walk  with  a 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  115 

bullet  in  his  heart,  and  an  ash  stick  nailing  him  to 
the  cold,  black  ground. 

Six  months  he  lay  still.  Six  months.  And  the 
water  welled  up  in  his  body,  and  soft  blue  spots 
chequered  it.  He  lay  still,  for  the  ash  stick  held 
him  in  place.  Six  months !  Then  her  face  came 
out  of  a  mist  of  green.  Pink  and  white  and  frail 
like  Dresden  china,  lilies-of-the-valley  at  her  breast, 
puce-coloured  silk  sheening  about  her.  Under  the 
young  green  leaves,  the  horse  at  a  foot-pace,  the 
high  yellow  wheels  of  the  chaise  scarcely  turning, 
her  face,  rippling  like  grain  a-blowing,  under  her 
puce-coloured  bonnet ;  and  burning  beside  her,  flam 
ing  within  his  correct  blue  coat  and  brass  buttons, 
is  someone.  What  has  dimmed  the  sun  ?  The  horse 
steps  on  a  rolling  stone;  a  wind  in  the  branches 
makes  a  moan.  The  little  leaves  tremble  and  shake, 
turn  and  quake,  over  and  over,  tearing  their  stems. 


116  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

There  is  a  shower  of  young  leaves,  and  a  sudden- 
sprung  gale  wails  in  the  trees. 

The  yellow-wheeled  chaise  is  rocking  —  rocking, 
and  all  the  branches  are  knocking  —  knocking.  The 
sun  in  the  sky  is  a  flat,  red  plate,  the  branches  creak 
and  grate.  She  screams  and  cowers,  for  the  green 
foliage  is  a  lowering  wave  surging  to  smother  her. 
But  she  sees  nothing.  The  stake  holds  firm.  The 
body  writhes,  the  body  squirms.  The  blue  spots 
widen,  the  flesh  tears,  but  the  stake  wears  well  in 
the  deep,  black  ground.  It  holds  the  body  in  the 
still,  black  ground. 

Two  years!  The  body  has  been  in  the  ground 
two  years.  It  is  worn  away;  it  is  clay  to  clay. 
Where  the  heart  moulders,  a  greenish  dust,  the  stake 
is  thrust.  Late  August  it  is,  and  night;  a  night 
flauntingly  jewelled  with  stars,  a  night  of  shooting 
stars  and  loud  insect  noises.  Down  the  road  to 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  117 

Tilbury,  silence  —  and  the  slow  flapping  of  large 
leaves.  Down  the  road  to  Sutton,  silence  —  and 
the  darkness  of  heavy-foliaged  trees.  Down  the 
road  to  Wayfleet,  silence  —  and  the  whirring  scrape 
of  insects  in  the  branches.  Down  the  road  to  Edgars- 
town,  silence  —  and  stars  like  stepping-stones  in 
a  pathway  overhead.  It  is  very  quiet  at  the  cross 
roads,  and  the  sign-board  points  the  way  down  the 
four  roads,  endlessly  points  the  way  where  nobody 
wishes  to  go. 

A  horse  is  galloping,  galloping  up  from  Sutton. 
Shaking  the  wide,  still  leaves  as  he  goes  under  them. 
Striking  sparks  with  his  iron  shoes;  silencing  the 
katydids.  Dr.  Morgan  riding  to  a  child-birth  over 
Tilbury  way ;  riding  to  deliver  a  woman  of  her  first 
born  son.  One  o'clock  from  Wayfleet  bell  tower, 
what  a  shower  of  shooting  stars !  And  a  breeze  all 
of  a  sudden,  jarring  the  big  leaves  and  making  them 
jerk  up  and  down.  Dr.  Morgan's  hat  is  blown 


118  MEN,    WOMEN  AND   GHOSTS 

from  his  head,  the  horse  swerves,  and  curves  away 
from  the  sign-post.  An  oath  —  spurs  —  a  blurring 
of  grey  mist.  A  quick  left  twist,  and  the  gelding  is 
snorting  and  racing  down  the  Tilbury  road  with  the 
wind  dropping  away  behind  him. 

The  stake  has  wrenched,  the  stake  has  started,  the 
body,  flesh  from  flesh,  has  parted.  But  the  bones 
hold  tight,  socket  and  ball,  and  clamping  them  down 
in  the  hard,  black  ground  is  the  stake,  wedged  through 
ribs  and  spine.  The  bones  may  twist,  and  heave, 
and  twine,  but  the  stake  holds  them  still  in  line. 
The  breeze  goes  down,  and  the  round  stars  shine,  for 
the  stake  holds  the  fleshless  bones  in  line. 

Twenty  years  now!  Twenty  long  years!  The 
body  has  powdered  itself  away;  it  is  clay  to  clay. 
It  is  brown  earth  mingled  with  brown  earth.  Only 
flaky  bones  remain,  lain  together  so  long  they  fit, 
although  not  one  bone  is  knit  to  another.  The  stake 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  119 

is  there  too,  rotted  through,  but  upright  still,  and  still 
piercing  down  between  ribs  and  spine  in  a  straight 
line. 

Yellow  stillness  is  on  the  cross-roads,  yellow  still 
ness  is  on  the  trees.  The  leaves  hang  drooping, 
wan.  The  four  roads  point  four  yellow  ways,  saffron 
and  gamboge  ribbons  to  the  gaze.  A  little  swirl 
of  dust  blows  up  Tilbury  road,  the  wind  which  fans 
it  has  not  strength  to  do  more;  it  ceases,  and  the 
dust  settles  down.  A  little  whirl  of  wind  comes  up 
Tilbury  road.  It  brings  a  sound  of  wheels  and  feet. 
The  wind  reels  a  moment  and  faints  to  nothing  under 
the  sign-post.  Wind  again,  wheels  and  feet  louder. 
Wind  again  —  again  —  again.  A  drop  of  rain,  flat 
into  the  dust.  Drop  !  —  Drop  !  Thick  heavy  rain 
drops,  and  a  shrieking  wind  bending  the  great  trees 
and  wrenching  off  their  leaves. 

Under  the  black  sky,  bowed  and  dripping  with 
rain,  up  Tilbury  road,  comes  the  procession.  A  fu- 


120  MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS 

neral  procession,  bound  for  the  graveyard  at  Way- 
fleet.  Feet  and  wheels  —  feet  and  wheels.  And 
among  them  one  who  is  carried. 

The  bones  in  the  deep,  still  earth  shiver  and  pull. 
There  is  a  quiver  through  the  rotted  stake.  Then 
stake  and  bones  fall  together  in  a  little  puffing  of 
dust. 

Like  meshes  of  linked  steel  the  rain  shuts  down 
behind  the  procession,  now  well  along  the  Wayfleet 
road. 

He  wavers  like  smoke  in  the  buffeting  wind.  His 
fingers  blow  out  like  smoke,  his  head  ripples  in  the 
gale.  Under  the  sign-post,  in  the  pouring  rain, 
he  stands,  and  watches  another  quavering  figure 
drifting  down  the  Wayfleet  road.  Then  swiftly 
he  streams  after  it.  It  flickers  among  the  trees. 
He  licks  out  and  winds  about  them.  Over,  under, 
blown,  contorted.  Spindrift  after  spindrift ;  smoke 
following  smoke.  There  is  a  wailing  through  the 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  121 

trees,  a  wailing  of  fear,  and  after  it  laughter  — 
laughter  —  laughter,  skirling  up  to  the  black  sky. 
Lightning  jags  over  the  funeral  procession.  A  heavy 
clap  of  thunder.  Then  darkness  and  rain,  and  the 
sound  of  feet  and  wheels. 


122  MEN,   WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS 


A  ROXBURY   GARDEN 

I 

HOOPS 

BLUE  and  pink  sashes, 
Criss-cross  shoes, 

Minna  and  Stella  run  out  into  the  garden 
To  play  at  hoop. 

Up  and  down  the  garden-paths  they  race, 
In  the  yellow  sunshine, 
Each  with  a  big  round  hoop 
White  as  a  stripped  willow-wand. 

Round  and  round  turn  the  hoops, 
Their  diamond  whiteness  cleaving  the  yellow  sun 
shine. 
The  gravel  crunches  and  squeaks  beneath  them, 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  123 

And  a  large  pebble  springs  them  into  the  air 
To  go  whirling  for  a  foot  or  two 
Before  they  touch  the  earth  again 
In  a  series  of  little  jumps. 

Spring,  Hoops ! 

Spit  out  a  shower  of  blue  and  white  brightness. 
The  little  criss-cross  shoes  twinkle  behind  you, 
The  pink  and  blue  sashes  flutter  like  flags, 
The  hoop-sticks  are  ready  to  beat  you. 
Turn,  turn,  Hoops  !     In  the  yellow  sunshine. 
Turn  your  stripped  willow  whiteness 
Along  the  smooth  paths. 

Stella  sings : 

"  Round  and  round,  rolls  my  hoop, 
Scarcely  touching  the  ground, 
With  a  swoop, 
And  a  bound, 


124  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

Round  and  round. 

With  a  bumpety,  crunching,  scattering  sound, 

Down  the  garden  it  flies ; 

In  our  eyes 

The  sun  lies. 

See  it  spin 

Out  and  in; 

Through  the  paths  it  goes  whirling, 

About  the  beds  curling. 

Sway  now  to  the  loop, 

Faster,  faster,  my  hoop. 

Round  you  come, 

Up  you  come, 

Quick  and  straight  as  before. 

Run,  run,  my  hoop,  run, 

Away  from  the  sun." 

And  the  great  hoop  bounds  along  the  path, 
Leaping  into  the  wind-bright  air. 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 


Minna  sings : 

"Turn,  hoop, 
•  Burn  hoop, 

Twist  and  twine 

Hoop  of  mine. 

Flash  along, 

Leap  along, 

Right  at  the  sun. 

Run,  hoop,  run. 

Faster  and  faster, 

Whirl,  twirl. 

Wheel  like  fire, 

And  spin  like  glass ; 

Fire's  no  whiter 

Glass  is  no  brighter. 

Dance, 

Prance, 

Over  and  over, 


126  MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS 

About  and  about, 

With  the  top  of  you  under, 

And  the  bottom  at  top, 

But  never  a  stop. 

Turn  about,  hoop,  to  the  tap  of  my  stick, 

I  follow  behind  you 

To  touch  and  remind  you. 

Burn  and  glitter,  so  white  and  quick, 

Round  and  round,  to  the  tap  of  a  stick." 

The  hoop  flies  along  between  the  flower-beds, 
Swaying  the  flowers  with  the  wind  of  its  passing. 

Beside  the  foxglove-border  roll  the  hoops, 
And  the  little  pink  and  white  bells  shake  and  jingle 
Up  and  down  their  tall  spires ; 
They  roll  under  the  snow-ball  bush, 
And  the  ground  behind  them  is  strewn  with  white 
petals ; 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  127 

They  swirl  round  a  corner, 

And  jar  a  bee  out  of  a  Canterbury  bell ; 

They  cast  their  shadows  for  an  instant 

Over  a  bed  of  pansies, 

Catch  against  the  spurs  of  a  columbine, 

Jostle  the  quietness  from  a  cluster  of  monk's-hood. 

Pat!  Pat!  behind  them  come  the  little   criss-cross 

shoes, 
And  the  blue  and  pink  sashes  stream  out  in  flappings 

of  colour. 

Stella  sings : 

"Hoop,  hoop, 
Roll  along, 
Faster  bowl  along, 
Hoop. 

Slow,  to  the  turning, 
Now  go !  —  Go ! 
Quick! 


128  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

Here's  the  stick, 

Rat-a-tap-tap  it, 

Pat  it,  flap  it. 

Fly  like  a  bird  or  a  yellow-backed  bee, 

See  how  soon  you  can  reach  that  tree. 

Here  is  a  path  that  is  perfectly  straight. 

Roll  along,  hoop,  or  we  shall  be  late." 

Minna  sings : 

"Trip  about,  slip  about,  whip  about 
Hoop. 

Wheel  like  a  top  at  its  quickest  spin, 
Then,  dear  hoop,  we  shall  surely  win. 
First  to  the  greenhouse  and  then  to  the  wall 
Circle  and  circle, 
And  let  the  wind  push  you, 
Poke  you, 
Brush  you, 
And  not  let  you  fall. 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS  129 

Whirring  you  round  like  a  wreath  of  mist. 

Hoopety  hoop, 

Twist, 

Twist." 

Tap  !  Tap  !  go  the  hoop-sticks, 

And  the  hoops  bowl  along  under  a  grape  arbour. 

For  an  instant  their  willow  whiteness  is  green, 

Pale  white-green. 

Then  they  are  out  in  the  sunshine, 

Leaving  the  half -formed  grape  clusters 

A-tremble  under  their  big  leaves. 

"I  will  beat  you,  Minna,"  cries  Stella, 
Hitting  her  hoop  smartly  with  her  stick. 
"Stella,  Stella,  we  are  winning,"  calls  Minna, 
As  her  hoop  curves  round  a  bed  of  clove-pinks. 
A  humming-bird  whizzes  past  Stella's  ear, 
And  two  or  three  yellow-and-black  butterflies 
Flutter,  startled,  out  of  a  pillar  rose. 


130  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

Round  and  round  race  the  little  girls 
After  their  great  white  hoops. 

Suddenly  Minna  stops. 

Her  hoop  wavers  an  instant, 

But  she  catches  it  up  on  her  stick. 

"Listen,  Stella!" 

Both  the  little  girls  are  listening ; 

And  the  scents  of  the  garden  rise  up  quietly  about 

them. 

"It's  the  chaise !    It's  Father ! 
Perhaps  he's  brought  us  a  book  from  Boston." 
Twinkle,  twinkle,  the  little  criss-cross  shoes 
Up  the  garden  path. 

Blue  —  pink — an  instant,  against  the  syringa  hedge. 
But  the  hoops,  white  as  stripped  willow-wands, 
Lie  in  the  grass, 

And  the  grasshoppers  jump  back  and  forth 
Over  them. 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  131 

II 

BATTLEDORE  AND  SHUTTLECOCK 
THE  shuttlecock  soars  upward 
In  a  parabola  of  whiteness, 
Turns, 

And  sinks  to  a  perfect  arc. 
Plat !  the  battledore  strikes  it, 
And  it  rises  again, 
Without  haste, 
Winged  and  curving, 
Tracing  its  white  flight 
Against  the  clipped  hemlock-trees. 
Plat! 
Up  again, 

Orange  and  sparkling  with  sun, 
Rounding  under  the  blue  sky, 
Dropping, 

Fading  to  grey-green 
In  the  shadow  of  the  coned  hemlocks. 


132  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

"Ninety-one."     "Ninety-two."     "Ninety-three." 

The  arms  of  the  little  girls 

Come  up  —  and  up  — 

Precisely, 

Like  mechanical  toys. 

The  battledores  beat  at  nothing, 

And  toss  the  dazzle  of  snow 

Off  their  parchment  drums. 

"Ninety-four."     Plat! 

"Ninety-five."     Plat! 

Back  and  forth 

Goes  the  shuttlecock, 

Icicle-white, 

Leaping  at  the  sharp-edged  clouds, 

Overturning, 

Falling, 

Down, 

And  down, 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  133 

Tinctured  with  pink 
From  the  upthrusting  shine 
Of  Oriental  poppies. 

The  little  girls  sway  to  the  counting  rhythm ; 
Left  foot, 
Right  foot. 
Plat!     Plat! 

Yellow  heat  twines  round  the  handles  of  the  battle 
dores, 

The  parchment  cracks  with  dryness ; 
But  the  shuttlecock 
Swings  slowly  into  the  ice-blue  sky, 
Heaving  up  on  the  warm  air 
Like  a  foam-bubble  on  a  wave, 
With  feathers  slanted  and  sustaining. 
Higher, 

Until  the  earth  turns  beneath  it ; 
Poised  and  swinging, 


134  MEN,    WOMEN   AND   GHOSTS 

With  all  the  garden  flowing  beneath  it, 

Scarlet,  and  blue,  and  purple,  and  white  — 

Blurred  colour  reflections  in  rippled  water  — 

Changing  —  streaming  — 

For  the  moment  that  Stella  takes  to  lift  her  arm. 

Then  the  shuttlecock  relinquishes, 

Bows, 

Descends ; 

And  the  sharp  blue  spears  of  the  air 

Thrust  it  to  earth. 

Again  it  mounts, 

Stepping  up  on  the  rising  scents  of  flowers, 

Buoyed  up  and  under  by  the  shining  heat. 

Above  the  foxgloves, 

Above  the  guelder-roses, 

Above  the  greenhouse  glitter, 

Till  the  shafts  of  cooler  air 

Meet  it, 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  135 

Deflect  it, 

Reject  it, 

Then  down, 

Down, 

Past  the  greenhouse, 

Past  the  guelder-rose  bush, 

Past  the  foxgloves. 

"Ninety-nine,"    Stella's    battledore    springs    to    the 

impact. 

Plunk !    Like  the  snap  of  a  taut  string. 
"Oh!    Minna!" 

The  shuttlecock  drops  zigzagedly, 
Out  of  orbit, 
Hits  the  path, 
And  rolls  over  quite  still. 
Dead  white  feathers, 
With  a  weight  at  the  end. 


136  MEN,   WOMEN  AND   GHOSTS 

III 

GARDEN  GAMES 

THE  tall  clock  is  striking  twelve ; 
And  the  little  girls  stop  in  the  hall  to  watch  it. 
And  the  big  ships  rocking  in  a  half-circle 
Above  the  dial. 
Twelve  o'clock ! 
Down  the  side  steps 
Go  the  little  girls, 
Under  their  big  round  straw  hats. 
Minna's  has  a  pink  ribbon, 
Stella's  a  blue, 

That  is  the  way  they  know  which  is  which. 
Twelve  o'clock ! 
An  hour  yet  before  dinner. 
Mother  is  busy  in  the  still-room, 
And  Hannah  is  making  gingerbread. 


MEN,   WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  137 

Slowly,  with  lagging  steps, 

They  follow  the  garden-path, 

Crushing  a  leaf  of  box  for  its  acrid  smell, 

Discussing  what  they  shall  do, 

And  doing  nothing. 

"Stella,  see  that  grasshopper 
Climbing  up  the  bank ! 
What  a  jump ! 
Almost  as  long  as  my  arm.'* 
Run,  children,  run. 
For  the  grasshopper  is  leaping  away, 
In  half -circle  curves, 
Shuttlecock  curves, 
Over  the  grasses. 

Hand  in  hand,  the  little  girls  call  to  him : 
"  Grandfather,  grandfather  gray, 
Give  me  molasses,  or  I'll  throw  you  away." 


138  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

The  grasshopper  leaps  into  the  sunlight, 

Golden-green, 

And  is  gone. 

"Let's  catch  a  bee." 

Round  whirl  the  little  girls, 

And  up  the  garden. 

Two  heads  are  thrust  among  the  Canterbury  bells, 

Listening, 

And  fingers  clasp  and  unclasp  behind  backs 

In  a  strain  of  silence. 

White  bells, 

Blue  bells, 

Hollow  and  reflexed. 

Deep  tunnels  of  blue  and  white  dimness, 

Cool  wine-tunnels  for  bees. 

There  is  a  floundering  and  buzzing  over  Minna's  head. 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS  139 

"Bend  it  down,  Stella.     Quick!     Quick!" 

The  wide  mouth  of  a  blossom 

Is  pressed  together  in  Minna's  fingers. 

The  stem  flies  up,  jiggling  its  flower-bells, 

And  Minna  holds  the  dark  blue  cup  in  her  hand, 

With  the  bee 

Imprisoned  in  it. 

Whirr !  Buzz  !  Bump ! 

Bump  !  Whiz  !  Bang  ! 

BANG ! ! 

The  blue  flower  tears  across  like  paper, 

And  a  gold-black  bee  darts  away  in  the  sunshine. 

"If  we  could  fly,  we  could  catch  him." 

The  sunshine  is  hot  on  Stella's  upturned  face, 

As  she  stares  after  the  bee. 

"We'll  follow  him  in  a  dove  chariot. 

Come  on,  Stella." 

Run,  children, 


140  MEX.    WOMEN   AXD    GHOSTS 

Along  the  red  gravel  paths. 
For  a  bee  is  hard  to  catch, 
Even  with  a  chariot  of  doves. 

Tall,  still,  and  cowled, 

Stand  the  monk's-hoods ; 

Taller  than  the  heads  of  the  little  girls. 

A  blossom  for  Minna. 

A  blossom  for  Stella. 

Off  comes  the  cowl, 

And  there  is  a  purple-painted  chariot ; 

Off  comes  the  forward  petal, 

And  there  are  two  little  green  doves, 

With  green  traces  tying  them  to  the  chariot. 

"Now  we  will  get  in,  and  fly  right  up  to  the  clouds. 

Fly,  Doves,  up  in  the  sky, 

With  Minna  and  me, 

After  the  bee." 


141 


Up  one  path, 

Down  another, 

Run  the  Kttle  girls, 

Holding  their  dove  chariots  in  front  of  them; 

But  the  bee  is  hidden  in  the  trumpet  of  a  honeysuckle, 

With  his  wings  folded  along  his  back. 

The  dove  chariots  are  thrown  away, 

And  the  Kttle  girls  wander  slowly  through  the  garden. 

Sucking  the  sal  via  tips, 

And  squeezing  the  snapdragons 

To  make  them  gape. 

"I'm  so  hot, 

Let's  pick  a  pansy 

And  see  the  little  man  in  his  bath, 

And  play  we're  he." 

A  royal  bath-tub, 

Hung  with  purple  stuffs  and  yeflow. 


142  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

The  great  purple-yellow  wings 

Rise  up  behind  the  little  red  and  green  man ; 

The  purple-yellow  wings  fan  him, 

He  dabbles  his  feet  in  cool  green. 

Off  with  the  green  sheath, 

And  there  are  two  spindly  legs. 

"Heigho !"  sighs  Minna. 

"Heigho!"  sighs  Stella. 

There  is  not  a  flutter  of  wind, 

And  the  sun  is  directly  overhead. 

Along  the  edge  of  the  garden 

Walk  the  little  girls. 

Their  hats,  round  and  yellow  like  cheeses, 

Are  dangling  by  the  ribbons. 

The  grass  is  a  tumult  of  buttercups  and  daisies ; 

Buttercups  and  daisies  streaming  away 

Up  the  hill. 

The  garden  is  purple,  and  pink,  and  orange,  and  scarlet 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  143 

The  garden  is  hot  with  colours. 

But  the  meadow  is  only  yellow,  and  white,  and  green, 

Cool,  and  long,  and  quiet. 

The  little  girls  pick  buttercups 

And  hold  them  under  each  other's  chins. 

"You're  as  gold  as  Grandfather's  snuff-box. 

You're  going  to  be  very  rich,  Minna." 

"Oh-o-o!     Then  I'll  ask  my  husband  to  give  me  a 

pair  of  garnet  earrings 
Just  like  Aunt  Nancy's. 
I  wonder  if  he  will. 
I  know.     We'll  tell  fortunes. 
That's  what  we'll  do." 
Plump  down  in  the  meadow  grass, 
Stella  and  Minna, 
With  their  round  yellow  hats, 
Like  cheeses, 
Beside  them. 
Drop, 


144  MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS 

Drop, 

Daisy  petals. 
"One  I  love, 
Two  I  love, 

Three  I  love  I  say  ..."     * 
The  ground  is  peppered  with  daisy  petals, 
And  the  little  girls  nibble  the  golden  centres, 
And  play  it  is  cake. 

A  bell  rings. 

Dinner-time ; 

And  after  dinner  there  are  lessons. 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS  145 


1777 
I 

THE  TRUMPET- VINE  ARBOUR 

THE  throats  of  the  little  red  trumpet-flowers  are  wide 
open, 

And  the  clangour  of  brass  beats  against  the  hot  sun 
light. 

They  bray  and  blare  at  the  burning  sky. 

Red  !     Red  !     Coarse  notes  of  red, 

Trumpeted  at  the  blue  sky. 

In  long  streaks  of  sound,  molten  metal, 

The  vine  declares  itself. 

Clang  !  —  from  its  red  and  yellow  trumpets. 

Clang  !  —  from  its  long,  nasal  trumpets, 

Splitting  the  sunlight  into  ribbons,  tattered  and  shot 
with  noise. 


146  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

I  sit  in  the  cool  arbour,  in  a  green-and-gold  twilight. 

It  is  very  still,  for  I  cannot  hear  the  trumpets, 

I  only  know  that  they  are  red  and  open, 

And  that  the  sun  above  the  arbour  shakes  with  heat. 

My  quill  is  newly  mended, 

And  makes  fine-drawn  lines  with  its  point. 

Down  the  long,  white  paper  it  makes  little  lines, 

Just  lines  —  up  —  down  —  criss-cross. 

My  heart  is  strained  out  at  the  pin-point  of  my  quill ; 

It  is  thin  and  writhing  like  the  marks  of  the  pen. 

My  hand  marches  to  a  squeaky  tune, 

It  marches  down  the  paper  to  a  squealing  of  fifes. 

My  pen  and  the  trumpet-flowers, 

And  Washington's  armies  away  over  the  smoke-tree 

to  the  Southwest. 
"Yankee  Doodle,"  my  Darling!    It   is   you   against 

the  British, 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS  147 

Marching  in  your  ragged  shoes  to  batter  down  King 

George. 
What  have  you  got  in  your  hat?     Not  a  feather,  I 

wager. 
Just  a  hay-straw,  for  it  is  the  harvest  you  are  fighting 

for. 
Hay  in  your  hat,  and  the  whites  of  their  eyes  for  a 

target ! 
Like  Bunker  Hill,  two  years  ago,  when  I  watched 

all  day  from  the  house-top 
Through  Father's  spy-glass. 
The  red  city,  and  the  blue,  bright  water, 
And  puffs  of  smoke  which  you  made. 
Twenty  miles  away, 

Round  by  Cambridge,  or  over  the  Neck, 
But  the  smoke  was  white  —  white  ! 
To-day  the  trumpet-flowers  are  red  —  red  — 
And  I  cannot  see  you  fighting, 
But  old  Mr.  Dimond  has  fled  to  Canada, 
And  Myra  sings  "Yankee  Doodle"  at  her  milking. 


148  MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS 

The  red  throats  of  the  trumpets  bray  and  clang  in 

the  sunshine, 
And  the  smoke-tree  puffs  dun  blossoms  into  the  blue 

air. 

n 

THE  CITY  OF  FALLING  LEAVES 
LEAVES  fall, 
Brown  leaves, 

Yellow  leaves  streaked  with  brown. 
They  fall, 
Flutter, 
Fall  again. 
The  brown  leaves, 
And  the  streaked  yellow  leaves, 
Loosen  on  their  branches 
And  drift  slowly  downwards. 
One, 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS  149 

One,  two,  three, 

One,  two,  five. 

All  Venice  is  a  falling  of  Autumn  leaves  — 

Brown, 

And  yellow  streaked  with  brown. 

"That  sonnet,  Abate, 
Beautiful, 

I  am  quite  exhausted  by  it. 
Your  phrases  turn  about  my  heart 
And  stifle  me  to  swooning. 
Open  the  window,  I  beg. 

Lord  !     What  a  strumming  of  fiddles  and  mandolins  ! 
'Tis  really  a  shame  to  stop  indoors. 
Call  my  maid,  or  I  will  make  you  lace  me  yourself. 
Fie,  how  hot  it  is,  not  a  breath  of  air ! 
See  how  straight  the  leaves  are  falling. 
Marianna,  I  will  have  the  yellow  satin  caught  up 
with  silver  fringe, 


150  MEN,   WOMEN  AND   GHOSTS 

It  peeps  out  delightfully  from  under  a  mantle. 

Am  I  well  painted  to-day,  caro  Abate  mio  ? 

You  will  be  proud  of  me  at  the  Ridotto,  hey? 

Proud  of  being  Cavalier  Servente  to  such  a  lady?" 

"Can  you  doubt  it,  Bellissima  Contessa? 

A  pinch  more  rouge  on  the  right  cheek, 

And  Venus  herself  shines  less  ..." 

"You  bore  me,  Abate, 

I  vow  I  must  change  you  ! 

A  letter,  Achmet? 

Run  and  look  out  of  the  window,  Abate. 

I  will  read  my  letter  in  peace." 

The  little  black  slave  with  the  yellow  satin  turban 

Gazes  at  his  mistress  with  strained  eyes. 

His  yellow  turban  and  black  skin 

Are  gorgeous  —  barbaric. 

The  yellow  satin  dress  with  its  silver  flashings 

Lies  on  a  chair 

Beside  a  black  mantle  and  a  black  mask. 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  151 

Yellow  and  black, 

Gorgeous  —  barbaric. 

The  lady  reads  her  letter, 

And  the  leaves  drift  slowly 

Past  the  long  windows. 

"How  silly  you  look,  my  dear  Abate, 

With  that  great  brown  leaf  in  your  wig. 

Pluck  it  off,  I  beg  you, 

Or  I  shall  die  of  laughing." 

A  yellow  wall 

Aflare  in  the  sunlight, 

Chequered  with  shadows, 

Shadows  of  vine  leaves, 

Shadows  of  masks. 

Masks  coming,  printing  themselves  for  an  instant, 

Then  passing  on, 

More  masks  always  replacing  them. 

Masks  with  tricorns  and  rapiers  sticking  out  behind 


152  MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS 

Pursuing  masks  with  plumes  and  high  heels, 

The  sunlight  shining  under  their  insteps. 

One, 

One,  two, 

One,  two,  three, 

There  is  a  thronging  of  shadows  on  the  hot  wall, 

Filigreed  at  the  top  with  moving  leaves. 

Yellow  sunlight  and  black  shadows, 

Yellow  and  black, 

Gorgeous  —  barbaric. 

Two  masks  stand  together, 

And  the  shadow  of  a  leaf  falls  through  them. 

Marking  the  wall  where  they  are  not. 

From  hat- tip  to  shoulder- tip, 

From  elbow  to  sword-hilt, 

The  leaf  falls. 

The  shadows  mingle, 

Blur  together, 

Slide  along  the  wall  and  disappear. 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND   GHOSTS  153 

Gold  of  mosaics  and  candles, 

And  night  blackness  lurking  in  the  ceiling  beams. 

Saint  Mark's  glitters  with  flames  and  reflections. 

A  cloak  brushes  aside, 

And  the  yellow  of  satin 

Licks  out  over  the  coloured  inlays  of  the  pavement. 

Under  the  gold  crucifixes 

There  is  a  meeting  of  hands 

Reaching  from  black  mantles. 

Sighing  embraces,  bold  investigations, 

Hide  in  confessionals, 

Sheltered  by  the  shuffling  of   feet. 

Gorgeous  —  barbaric 

In  its  mail  of  jewels  and  gold, 

Saint  Mark's  looks  down  at  the  swarm  of  black  masks ; 

And  outside  in  the  palace  gardens  brown  leaves  fall, 

Flutter, 

Fall. 


154  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

Brown, 

And  yellow  streaked  with  brown. 

Blue-black,  the  sky  over  Venice, 

With  a  pricking  of  yellow  stars. 

There  is  no  moon, 

And  the  waves  push  darkly  against  the  prow 

Of  the  gondola, 

Coming  from  Malamocco 

And  streaming  toward  Venice. 

It  is  black  under  the  gondola  hood, 

But  the  yellow  of  a  satin  dress 

Glares  out  like  the  eye  of  a  watching  tiger. 

Yellow  compassed  about  with  darkness, 

Yellow  and  black, 

Gorgeous  —  barbaric. 

The  boatman  sings, 

It  is  Tasso  that  he  sings; 

The  lovers  seek  each  other  beneath  their  mantles, 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND   GHOSTS  155 

And  the  gondola  drifts  over  the  lagoon,  aslant  to 

the  coming  dawn. 
But  at  Malamocco  in  front, 
In  Venice  behind, 
Fall  the  leaves, 
Brown, 

And  yellow  streaked  with  brown. 
They  fall, 
Flutter, 
Fall. 


BRONZE   TABLETS 


THE   FRUIT  SHOP 

CROSS-RIBBONED  shoes ;   a  muslin  gown, 

High-waistecf,  girdled  with  bright  blue ; 

A  straw  poke  bonnet  which  hid  the  frown 

She  pluckered  her  little  brows  into 

As  she  picked  her  dainty  passage  through 

The  dusty  street.     "Ah,  Mademoiselle, 

A  dirty  pathway,  we  need  rain, 

My  poor  fruits  suffer,  and  the  shell 

Of  this  nut's  too  big  for  its  kernel,  lain 

Here  in  the  sun  it  has  shrunk  again. 

The  baker  down  at  the  corner  says 

We  need  a  battle  to  shake  the  clouds ; 

But  I  am  a  man  of  peace,  my  ways 

Don't  look  to  the  killing  of  men  in  crowds. 

Poor  fellows  with  guns  and  bayonets  for  shrouds  ! 

Pray,  Mademoiselle,  come  out  of  the  sun. 


160  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

Let  me  dust  off  that  wicker  chair.     It's  cool 

In  here,  for  the  green  leaves  I  have  run 

In  a  curtain  over  the  door,  make  a  pool 

Of  shade.     You  see  the  pears  on  that  stool  — 

The  shadow  keeps  them  plump  and  fair." 

Over  the  fruiterer's  door,  the  leaves 

Held  back  the  sun,  a  greenish  flare 

Quivered  and  sparked  the  shop,  the  sheaves 

Of  sunbeams,  glanced  from  the  sign  on  the  eaves, 

Shot  from  the  golden  letters,  broke 

And  splintered  to  little  scattered  lights. 

Jeanne  Tourmont  entered  the  shop,  her  poke 

Bonnet  tilted  itself  to  rights, 

And  her  face  looked  out  like  the  moon  on  nights 

Of  flickering  clouds.     "Monsieur  Popain,  I 

Want  gooseberries,  an  apple  or  two, 

Or  excellent  plums,  but  not  if  they're  high ; 

Haven't  you  some  which  a  strong  wind  blew  ? 

I've  only  a  couple  of  francs  for  you." 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  161 

Monsieur  Popain  shrugged  and  rubbed  his  hands. 

What  could  he  do,  the  times  were  sad. 

A  couple  of  francs  and  such  demands  ! 

And  asking  for  fruits  a  little  bad. 

Wind-blown  indeed  !     He  never  had 

Anything  else  than  the  very  best. 

He  pointed  to  baskets  of  blunted  pears 

With  the  thin  skin  tight  like  a  bursting  vest, 

All  yellow,  and  red,  and  brown,  in  smears. 

Monsieur  Popain's  voice  denoted  tears. 

He  took  up  a  pear  with  tender  care, 

And  pressed  it  with  his  hardened  thumb. 

"Smell  it,  Mademoiselle,  the  perfume  there 

Is  like  lavender,  and  sweet  thoughts  come 

Only  from  having  a  dish  at  home. 

And  those  grapes !     They  melt    in    the    mouth    like 

wine, 

Just  a  click  of  the  tongue,  and  they  burst  to  honey. 
They're  only  this  morning  off  the  vine, 
M 


162  MEN,    WOMEN  AND   GHOSTS 

And  I  paid  for  them  down  in  silver  money. 

The  Corporal's  widow  is  witness,  her  pony 

Brought  them  in  at  sunrise  to-day. 

Those  oranges  —  Gold !    They're  almost  red. 

They  seem  little  chips  just  broken  away 

From  the  sun  itself.     Or  perhaps  instead 

You'd  like  a  pomegranate,  they're  rarely  gay, 

When  you   split   them   the   seeds   are   like   crimson 

spray. 
Yes,  they're  high,  they're  high,  and  those  Turkey 

figs, 

They  all  come  from  the  South,  and  Nelson's  ships 
Make  it  a  little  hard  for  our  rigs. 
They  must  be  forever  giving  the  slips 
To  the  cursed  English,  and  when  men  clips 
Through  powder  to  bring  them,  why  dainties  mounts 
A  bit  in  price.     Those  almonds  now, 
I'll  strip  off  that  husk,  when  one  discounts 
A  life  or  two  in  a  nigger  row 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND   GHOSTS  163 

With  the  man  who  grew  them,  it  does  seem  how 
They  would  come  dear ;   and  then  the  fight 
At  sea  perhaps,  our  boats  have  heels 
And  mostly  they  sail  along  at  night, 
But  once  in  a  way  they're  caught ;  one  feels 
Ivory's  not  better  nor  finer  —  why  peels 
From  an  almond  kernel  are  worth  two  sous. 
It's  hard  to  sell  them  now,"  he  sighed. 
"Purses  are  tight,  but  I  shall  not  lose. 
There's  plenty  of  cheaper  things  to  choose." 
He  picked  some  currants  out  of  a  wide 
Earthen  bowl.     "They  make  the  tongue 
Almost  fly  out  to  suck  them,  bride 
Currants  they  are,  they  were  planted  long 
Ago  for  some  new  Marquise,  among 
Other  great  beauties,  before  the  Chateau 
Was  left  to  rot.     Now  the  Gardener's  wife, 
He  that  marched  off  to  his  death  at  Marengo, 
Sells  them  to  me ;  she  keeps  her  life 


164  MEN,   WOMEN  AND   GHOSTS 

From  snuffing  out,  with  her  pruning  knife. 

She's  a  poor  old  thing,  but  she  learnt  the  trade 

When  her  man  was  young,  and  the  young  Marquis 

Couldn't  have  enough  garden.     The  flowers  he  made 

All  new  !     And  the  fruits  !     But  'twas  said  that  he 

Was  no  friend  to  the  people,  and  so  they  laid 

Some  charge  against  him,  a  cavalcade 

Of  citizens  took  him  away ;  they  meant 

Well,  but  I  think  there  was  some  mistake. 

He  just  pottered  round  in  his  garden,  bent 

On  growing  things ;  we  were  so  awake 

In  those  days  for  the  New  Republic's  sake. 

He's  gone,  and  the  garden  is  all  that's  left 

..     ' 
Not  in  ruin,  but  the  currants  and  apricots, 

And  peaches,  furred  and  sweet,  with  a  cleft 
Full  of  morning  dew,  in  those  green-glazed  pots, 
Why,  Mademoiselle,  there  is  never  an  eft 
Or  worm  among  them,  and  as  for  theft, 
How  the  old  woman  keeps  them  I  cannot  say, 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS  165 

But  they're  finer  than  any  grown  this  way." 

Jeanne  Tourmont  drew  back  the  filigree  ring 

Of  her  striped  silk  purse,  tipped  it  upside  down 

And  shook  it,  two  coins  fell  with  a  ding 

Of  striking  silver,  beneath  her  gown 

One  rolled,  the  other  lay,  a  thing 

Sparked  white  and  sharply  glistening, 

In  a  drop  of  sunlight  between  two  shades. 

She  jerked  the  purse,  took  its  empty  ends 

And  crumpled  them  toward  the  centre  braids. 

The  whole  collapsed  to  a  mass  of  blends 

Of  colours  and  stripes.     "Monsieur  Popain,  friends 

We  have  always  been.     In  the  days  before 

The  Great  Revolution  my  aunt  was  kind 

When  you  needed  help.     You  need  no  more ; 

'Tis  we  now  who  must  beg  at  your  door, 

And  will  you  refuse  ?  "     The  little  man 

Bustled,  denied,  his  heart  was  good, 

But  times  were  hard.     He  went  to  a  pan 


166  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

And  poured  upon  the  counter  a  flood 

Of  pungent  raspberries,  tanged  like  wood. 

He  took  a  melon  with  rough  green  rind 

And  rubbed  it  well  with  his  apron  tip. 

Then  he  hunted  over  the  shop  to  find 

Some  walnuts  cracking  at  the  lip, 

And  added  to  these  a  barberry  slip 

Whose  acrid,  oval  berries  hung 

Like  fringe  and  trembled.     He  reached  a  round 

Basket,  with  handles,  from  where  it  swung 

Against  the  wall,  laid  it  on  the  ground 

And  filled  it,  then  he  searched  and  found 

The  francs  Jeanne  Tourmont  had  let  fall. 

"You'll  return  the  basket,  Mademoiselle?" 

She  smiled,  "The  next  time  that  I  call, 

Monsieur.     You  know  that  very  well." 

'Twas  lightly  said,  but  meant  to  tell. 

Monsieur  Popain  bowed,  somewhat  abashed. 

She  took  her  basket  and  stepped  out. 

The  sunlight  was  so  bright  it  flashed 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  167 

Her  eyes  to  blindness,  and  the  rout 

Of  the  little  street  was  all  about. 

Through  glare  and  noise  she  stumbled,  dazed. 

The  heavy  basket  was  a  care. 

She  heard  a  shout  and  almost  grazed 

The  panels  of  a  chaise  and  pair. 

The  postboy  yelled,  and  an  amazed 

Face  from  the  carriage  window  gazed. 

She  jumped  back  just  in  time,  her  heart 

Beating  with  fear.     Through  whirling  light 

The  chaise  departed,  but  her  smart 

Was  keen  and  bitter.     In  the  white 

Dust  of  the  street  she  saw  a  bright 

Streak  of  colours,  wet  and  gay, 

Red  like  blood.     Crushed  but  fair, 

Her  fruit  stained  the  cobbles  of  the  way. 

Monsieur  Popain  joined  her  there. 

"Tiens,  Mademoiselle, 
t 

c'est  le  General  Bonaparte,  partant  pour 
la  Guerre!" 


168  MEN,    WOMEN  AND   GHOSTS 


MALMAISON 

I 

How  the  slates  of  the  roof  sparkle  in  the  sun,  over 
there,  over  there,  beyond  the  high  wall !  How 
quietly  the  Seine  runs  in  loops  and  windings,  over 
there,  over  there,  sliding  through  the  green  country 
side!  Like  ships  of  the  line,  stately  with  canvas, 
the  tall  clouds  pass  along  the  sky,  over  the  glittering 
roof,  over  the  trees,  over  the  looped  and  curving 
river.  A  breeze  quivers  through  the  linden-trees. 
Roses  bloom  at  Malmaison.  Roses !  Roses !  But 
the  road  is  dusty.  Already  the  Citoyenne  Beau- 
harnais  wearies  of  her  walk.  Her  skin  is  chalked 
and  powdered  with  dust,  she  smells  dust,  and  behind 
the  wall  are  roses !  Roses  with  smooth  open  petals, 
poised  above  rippling  leaves  .  .  .  Roses  .  .  .  They 
have  told  her  so.  The  Citoyenne  Beauharnais  shrugs 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  169 

her  shoulders  and  makes  a  little  face.  She  must 
mend  her  pace  if  she  would  be  back  in  time  for 
dinner.  Roses  indeed !  The  guillotine  more  likely. 

The  tiered  clouds  float  over  Malmaison,  and  the 
slate  roof  sparkles  in  the  sun. 

n 

GALLOP  !  Gallop !  The  General  brooks  no  delay. 
Make  way,  good  people,  and  scatter  out  of  his  path, 
you,  and  your  hens,  and  your  dogs,  and  your  children. 
The  General  is  returned  from  Egypt,  and  is  come  in 
a  caleche  and  four  to  visit  his  new  property.  Throw 
open  the  gates,  you,  Porter  of  Malmaison.  Pull 
off  your  cap,  my  man,  this  is  your  master,  the  hus 
band  of  Madame.  Faster !  Faster !  A  jerk  and 
a  jingle  and  they  are  arrived,  he  and  she.  Madame 
has  red  eyes.  Fie!  It  is  for  joy  at  her  husband's 
return.  Learn  your  place,  Porter.  A  gentleman  here 


170  MEN,   WOMEN  AND   GHOSTS 

for  two  months  ?  Fie !  Fie,  then !  Since  when  have 
you  taken  to  gossiping.  Madame  may  have  a  brother, 
I  suppose.  That  —  all  green,  and  red,  and  glitter, 
with  flesh  as  dark  as  ebony  —  that  is  a  slave ;  a  blood 
thirsty,  stabbing,  slashing  heathen,  come  from  the  hot 
countries  to  cure  your  tongue  of  idle  whispering. 

A  fine  afternoon  it  is,  with  tall  bright  clouds  sail 
ing  over  the  trees. 

"Bonaparte,  mon  ami,  the  trees  are  golden  like 
my  star,  the  star  I  pinned  to  your  destiny  when  I 
married  you.  The  gypsy,  you  remember  her  proph 
ecy !  My  dear  friend,  not  here,  the  servants  are 
watching ;  send  them  away,  and  that  flashing  splen 
dour,  Roustan.  Superb  —  Imperial,  but  .  .  .  My 
dear,  your  arm  is  trembling ;  I  faint  to  feel  it  touching 
me  !  No,  no,  Bonaparte,  not  that  —  spare  me  that 
—  did  we  not  bury  that  last  night !  You  hurt  me, 
my  friend,  you  are  so  hot  and  strong.  Not  long, 


MEN,   WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  171 

Dear,  no,  thank  God,  not  long." 

The  looped  river  runs  saffron,  for  the  sun  is  setting. 
It  is  getting  dark.  Dark.  Darker.  In  the  moon 
light,  the  slate  roof  shines  palely  milkily  white. 

The  roses  have  faded  at  Malmaison,  nipped  by 
the  frost.  What  need  for  roses?  Smooth,  open 
petals  —  her  arms.  Fragrant,  outcurved  petals  — 
her  breasts.  He  rises  like  a  sun  above  her,  stooping 
to  touch  the  petals,  press  them  wider.  Eagles. 
Bees.  What  are  they  to  open  roses  !  A  little  shiver 
ing  breeze  runs  through  the  linden-trees,  and  the 
tiered  clouds  blow  across  the  sky  like  ships  of  the 
line,  stately  with  canvas. 

m 

THE  gates  stand  wide  at  Malmaison,  stand  wide 
all  day.  The  gravel  of  the  avenue  glints  under  the 
continual  rolling  of  wheels.  An  officer  gallops  up 
with  his  sabre  clicking;  a  mameluke  gallops  down 
with  his  charger  kicking.  Valets  de  pied  run  about 


172  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

in  ones,  and  twos,  and  groups,  like  swirled  blown 
leaves.  Tramp !  Tramp !  The  guard  is  changing, 
and  the  grenadiers  off  duty  lounge  out  of  sight, 
ranging  along  the  roads  toward  Paris. 

The  slate  roof  sparkles  in  the  sun,  but  it  sparkles 
milkily,  vaguely,  the  great  glass-houses  put  out  its 
shining.  Glass,  stone,  and  onyx  now  for  the  sun's 
mirror.  Much  has  come  to  pass  at  Malmaison. 
New  rocks  and  fountains,  blocks  of  carven  marble, 
fluted  pillars  uprearing  antique  temples,  vases  and 
urns  in  unexpected  places,  bridges  of  stone,  bridges 
of  wood,  arbours  and  statues,  and  a  flood  of  flowers 
everywhere,  new  flowers,  rare  flowers,  parterre  after 
parterre  of  flowers.  Indeed,  the  roses  bloom  at 
Malmaison.  It  is  youth,  youth  un trammeled  and 
advancing,  trundling  a  country  ahead  of  it  as  though 
it  were  a  hoop.  Laughter,  and  spur  janglings  in 
tessellated  vestibules.  Tripping  of  clocked  and  em 
broidered  stockings  in  little  low-heeled  shoes  over 


MEN,   WOMEN   AND   GHOSTS  173 

smooth  grass-plots.  India  muslins  spangled  with 
silver  patterns  slide  through  trees  —  mingle  —  sepa 
rate —  white  day  fireflies  flashing  moon-brilliance  in 
the  shade  of  foliage. 

"The  kangaroos!  I  vow,  Captain,  I  must  see  the 
kangaroos." 

"As  you  please,  dear  Lady,  but  I  recommend  the 
shady  linden  alley  and  feeding  the  cockatoos." 

"They  say  that  Madame  Bonaparte's  breed  of 
sheep  is  the  best  in  all  France." 

"And,  oh,  have  you  see  the  enchanting  little  cedar 
she  planted  when  the  First  Consul  sent  home  the 
news  of  the  victory  of  Marengo?" 

Picking,  choosing,  the  chattering  company  flits  to 
and  fro.  Over  the  trees  the  great  clouds  go,  tiered, 
stately,  like  ships  of  the  line  bright  with  canvas. 

Prisoners'-base,  and  its  swooping,  veering,  racing, 
giggling,  bumping.  The  First  Consul  runs  plump 
into  M.  de  Beauharnais  and  falls.  But  he  picks 


174  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

himself  up  smartly,  and  starts  after  M.  Isabey.  Too 
late,  M.  Le  Premier  Consul,  Mademoiselle  Hortense  is 
out  after  you.  Quickly,  my  dear  Sir  !  Stir  your  short 
legs,  she  is  swift  and  eager,  and  as  graceful  as 
her  mother.  She  is  there,  that  other,  playing  too, 
but  lightly,  warily,  bearing  herself  with  care,  rather 
floating  out  upon  the  air  than  running,  never  far 
from  goal.  She  is  there,  borne  up  above  her  guests 
as  something  indefinably  fair,  a  rose  above  peri 
winkles.  A  blown  rose,  smooth  as  satin,  reflexed, 
one  loosened  petal  hanging  back  and  down.  A  rose 
that  undulates  languorously  as  the  breeze  takes  it, 
resting  upon  its  leaves  in  a  faintness  of  perfume. 

There  are  rumours  about  the  First  Consul.  Mal- 
maison  is  full  of  women,  and  Paris  is  only  two  leagues 
distant.  Madame  Bonaparte  stands  on  the  wooden 
bridge  at  sunset,  and  watches  a  black  swan  pushing 
the  pink  and  silver  water  in  front  of  him  as  he  swims, 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS  175 

crinkling  its  smoothness  into  pleats  of  changing  colour 
with  his  breast.  Madame  Bonaparte  presses  against 
the  parapet  of  the  bridge,  and  the  crushed  roses  at 
her  belt  melt,  petal  by  petal,  into  the  pink  water. 

IV 

A  VILE  day,  Porter.  But  keep  your  wits  about 
you.  The  Empress  will  soon  be  here.  Queer,  with 
out  the  Emperor  !  It  is  indeed,  but  best  not  consider 
that.  Scratch  your  head  and  prick  up  your  ears. 
Divorce  is  not  for  you  to  debate  about.  She  is  late  ? 
Ah,  well,  the  roads  are  muddy.  The  rain  spears 
are  as  sharp  as  whetted  knives.  They  dart  down 
and  down,  edged  and  shining.  Clop-trop !  Clop- 
trop !  A  carriage  grows  out  of  the  mist.  Hist, 
Porter.  You  can  keep  on  your  hat.  It  is  only  Her 
Majesty's  dogs  and  her  parrot.  Clop-trop !  The 
Ladies  in  Waiting,  Porter.  Clop-trop !  It  is  Her 
Majesty.  At  least,  I  suppose  it  is,  but  the  blinds 
are  drawn. 


176  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

"In  all  the  years  I  have  served  Her  Majesty  she 
never  before  passed  the  gate  without  giving  me  a 
smile!" 

You're  a  droll  fellow,  to  expect  the  Empress  to 
put  out  her  head  in  the  pouring  rain  and  salute  you. 
She  has  affairs  of  her  own  to  think  about. 

Clang  the  gate,  no  need  for  further  waiting,  nobody 
else  will  be  coming  to  Malmaison  to-night. 

White  under  her  veil,  drained  and  shaking,  the 
woman  crosses  the  antechamber.  Empress !  Em 
press  !  Foolish  splendour,  perished  to  dust.  Ashes 
of  roses,  ashes  of  youth.  Empress  forsooth ! 

Over  the  glass  domes  of  the  hot-houses  drenches 
the  rain.  Behind  her  a  clock  ticks  —  ticks  again. 
The  sound  knocks  upon  her  thought  with  the  echoing 
shudder  of  hollow  vases.  She  places  her  hands  on 
her  ears,  but  the  minutes  pass,  knocking.  Tears  in 
Malmaison.  And  years  to  come  each  knocking  by, 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  177 

minute  after  minute.  Years,  many  years,  and  tears, 
and  cold  pouring  rain. 

"I  feel  as  though  I  had  died,  and  the  only  sensa 
tion  I  have  is  that  I  am  no  more." 

Rain  !     Heavy,  thudding  rain ! 

V 

THE  roses  bloom  at  Malmaison.  And  not  only 
roses.  Tulips,  myrtles,  geraniums,  camelias,  rhodo 
dendrons,  dahlias,  double  hyacinths.  All  the  year 
through,  under  glass,  under  the  sky,  flowers  bud, 
expand,  die,  and  give  way  to  others,  always  others. 
From  distant  countries  they  have  been  brought,  and 
taught  to  live  in  the  cool  temperateness  of  France. 
There  is  the  Bonapartea  from  Peru;  the  Napoleone 
ImpSriale;  the  Josephinia  Imperatrix,  a  pearl- white 
flower,  purple-shadowed,  the  calix  pricked  out  with 
crimson  points.  Malmaison  wears  its  flowers  as 
a  lady  wears  her  gems,  flauntingly,  assertively.  Mal 
maison  decks  herself  to  hide  the  hollow  within. 


178  MEN,   WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS 

The  glass-houses  grow  and  grow,  and  every  year 
fling  up  hotter  reflections  to  the  sailing  sun. 

The  cost  runs  into  millions,  but  a  woman  must 
have  something  to  console  herself  for  a  broken  heart. 
One  can  play  backgammon  and  patience,  and  then 
patience  and  backgammon,  and  stake  gold  napoleons 
on  each  game  won.  Sport  truly !  It  is  an  unruly 
spirit  which  could  ask  better.  With  her  jewels, 
her  laces,  her  shawls;  her  two  hundred  and  twenty 
dresses,  her  fichus,  her  veils ;  her  pictures,  her  busts, 
her  birds.  It  is  absurd  that  she  cannot  be  happy. 
The  Emperor  smarts  under  the  thought  of  her  ingrati 
tude.  What  could  he  do  more  ?  And  yet  she  spends, 
spends  as  never  before.  It  is  ridiculous.  Can  she 
not  enjoy  life  at  a  smaller  figure  ?  Was  ever  monarch 
plagued  with  so  extravagant  an  ex- wife.  She  owes 
her  chocolate-merchant,  her  candle-merchant,  her 
sweetmeat  purveyor;  her  grocer,  her  butcher,  her 
poulterer ;  her  architect,  and  the  shopkeeper  who  sells 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS  179 

her  rouge ;  her  perfumer,  her  dressmaker,  her  merchant 
of  shoes.  She  owes  for  fans,  plants,  engravings,  and 
chairs.  She  owes  masons  and  carpenters,  vintners, 
lingeres.  The  lady's  affairs  are  in  sad  confusion. 

And  why  ?    Why  ? 

Can  a  river  flow  when  the  spring  is  dry  ? 

Night.  The  Empress  sits  alone,  and  the  clock 
ticks,  one  after  one.  The  clock  nicks  off  the  edges 
of  her  life.  She  is  chipped  like  an  old  bit  of  china; 
she  is  frayed  like  a  garment  of  last  year's  wearing. 
She  is  soft,  crinkled,  like  a  fading  rose.  And  each 
minute  flows  by  brushing  against  her,  shearing  off 
another  and  another  petal.  The  Empress  crushes 
her  breasts  with  her  hands  and  weeps.  And  the 
tall  clouds  sail  over  Malmaison  like  a  procession  of 

stately  ships  bound  for  the  moon. 

i 

Scarlet,   clear-blue,   purple   epauletted   with   gold. 


180  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

It  is  a  parade  of  soldiers  sweeping  up  the  avenue. 
Eight  horses,  eight  Imperial  harnesses,  four  capari 
soned  postilions,  a  carriage  with  the  Emperor's 
arms  on  the  panels.  Ho,  Porter,  pop  out  your  eyes, 
and  no  wonder.  Where  else  under  the  Heavens 
could  you  see  such  splendour ! 

They  sit  on  a  stone  seat.  The  little  man  in  the 
green  coat  of  a  Colonel  of  Chasseurs,  and  the  lady, 
beautiful  as  a  satin  seed-pod,  and  as  pale.  The 
house  has  memories.  The  satin  seed-pod  holds 
2  his  germs  of  Empire.  We  will  stay  here,  under 
the  blue  sky  and  the  turreted  white  clouds.  She 
draws  him ;  he  feels  her  faded  loveliness  urge  him 
to  replenish  it.  Her  soft  transparent  texture  woos 
his  nervous  fingering.  He  speaks  to  her  of  debts, 
of  resignation ;  of  her  children,  and  his ;  he  promises 
that  she  shall  see  the  King  of  Rome;  he  says  some 
harsh  things  and  some  pleasant.  But  she  is  fltere, 
close  to  him,  rose  toned  to  amber,  white  shot  with 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  181 

violet,   pungent  to   his   nostrils   as   embalmed   rose- 
leaves  in  a  twilit  room. 

Suddenly  the  Emperor  calls  his  carriage  and  rolls 
away  across  the  looping  Seine. 

VI 

CRYSTAL-BLUE  brightness  over  the  glass-houses. 
Crystal-blue  streaks  and  ripples  over  the  lake.  A 
macaw  on  a  gilded  perch  screams;  they  have  for 
gotten  to  take  out  his  dinner.  The  windows  shake. 
Boom !  Boom !  It  is  the  rumbling  of  Prussian 
cannon  beyond  Pecq.  Roses  bloom  at  Malmaison. 
Hoses !  Roses  !  Swimming  above  their  leaves,  rot 
ting  beneath  them.  Fallen  flowers  strew  the  unraked 
walks.  Fallen  flowers  for  a  fallen  Emperor!  The 
General  in  charge  of  him  draws  back  and  watches. 
Snatches  of  music  —  snarling,  sneering  music  of 
bagpipes.  They  say  a  Scotch  regiment  is  besieging 
Saint-Denis.  The  Emperor  wipes  his  face,  or  is 


182  MEN,   WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

it  his  eyes.  His  tired  eyes  which  see  nowhere  the 
grace  they  long  for.  Josephine !  Somebody  asks 
him  a  question,  he  does  not  answer,  somebody  else 
does  that.  There  are  voices,  but  one  voice  he  does 
not  hear,  and  yet  he  hears  it  all  the  time.  Josephine  ! 
The  Emperor  puts  up  his  hand  to  screen  his  face. 
The  white  light  of  a  bright  cloud  spears  sharply 
through  the  linden-trees.  Vive  VEmpereur!  There 
are  troops  passing  beyond  the  wall,  troops  which 
sing  and  call.  Boom !  A  pink  rose  is  jarred  off  its 
stem  and  falls  at  the  Emperor's  feet. 

"Very   well.     I   go."     Where!     Does   it   matter? 
There   is   no   sword   to   clatter.     Nothing   but   soft 
brushing  gravel  and  a  gate  which  shuts  with  a  click. 
"Quick,  fellow,  don't  spare  your  horses." 
A  whip  cracks,  wheels  turn,  why  burn  one's  eyes 
following  a  fleck  of  dust. 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND   GHOSTS  183 

VII 

OVER  the  slate  roof  tall  clouds,  like  ships  of  the 
line,  pass  along  the  sky.  The  glass-houses  glitter 
splotchily,  for  many  of  their  lights  are  broken.  Roses 
bloom,  fiery  cinders  quenching  under  damp  weeds. 
Wreckage  and  misery,  and  a  trailing  of  petty  deeds 
smearing  over  old  recollections. 

The  musty  rooms  are  empty  and  their  shutters 
are  closed,  only  in  the  gallery  there  is  a  stuffed  black 
swan,  covered  with  dust.  When  you  touch  it,  the 
feathers  come  off  and  float  softly  to  the  ground. 
Through  a  chink  in  the  shutters,  one  can  see  the 
stately  clouds  crossing  the  sky  toward  the  Roman 
arches  of  the  Marly  Aqueduct. 


184  MEN,    WOMEN  AND   GHOSTS 


THE  HAMMERS 

I 

FBINDSBURY,  KENT,   1786 
BANG! 
Bang! 
Tap! 

Tap-a-tap !    Rap ! 

All  through  the  lead  and  silver  Winter  days, 
All  through  the  copper  of  Autumn  hazes. 
Tap  to  the  red  rising  sun, 
Tap  to  the  purple  setting  sun. 
Four  years  pass  before  the  job  is  done. 
Two  thousand  oak  trees  grown  and  felled, 
Two  thousand  oaks  from  the  hedgerows  of  the  Weald, 
Sussex  has  yielded  two  thousand  oaks 
With  huge  boles 
Round  which  the  tape  rolls 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND   GHOSTS  185 

Thirty  mortal  feet,  say  the  village  folks. 

Two  hundred  loads  of  elm  and  Scottish  fir ; 

Planking  from  Dantzig. 

My !    What  timber  goes  into  a  ship ! 

Tap !    Tap ! 

Two  years  they  have  seasoned  her  ribs  on  the  ways, 

Tapping,  tapping. 

You  can  hear,   though   there's  nothing   where   you 

gaze. 

Through  the  fog  down  the  reaches  of  the  river, 
The  tapping  goes  on  like  heart-beats  in  a  fever. 
The  church-bells  chime 
Hours  and  hours, 
Dropping  days  in  showers. 
Bang !     Rap  !    Tap  ! 
Go  the  hammers  all  the  time. 
They  have  planked  up  her  timbers 
And  the  nails  are  driven  to  the  head ; 
They  have  decked  her  over, 


186  MEN,   WOMEN  AND   GHOSTS 

And  again,  and  again. 

The  shoring-up  beams  shudder  at  the  strain. 
Black  and  blue  breeches, 
Pigtails  bound  and  shining  : 
Like  ants  crawling  about, 

The  hull  swarms  with  carpenters,  running  in  and  out. 
Joiners,  calkers, 

And  they  are  all  terrible  talkers. 

Jem  Wilson  has  been  to  sea  and  he  tells  some  wonder 
ful  tales 

Of  whales,  and  spice  islands, 
And  pirates  off  the  Barbary  coast. 
He  boasts  magnificently,  with  his  mouth  full  of  nails. 
Stephen  Pibold  has  a  tenor  voice, 
He  shifts  his  quid  of  tobacco  and  sings : 

"The  second  in  command  was  blear-eyed  Ned  : 

While  the  surgeon  his  limb  was  a-lopping, 
A  nine-pounder  came  and  smack  went  his  head, 

Pull  away,  pull  away,  pull  away  !     I  say ; 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  187 

Rare  news  for  my  Meg  of  Wappirig  !" 
Every  Sunday 
People  come  in  crowds 
(After  church-time,  of  course) 
In  curricles,  and  gigs,  and  wagons, 
And  some  have  brought  cold  chicken  and  flagons 
Of  wine, 

And  beer  in  stoppered  jugs. 

"Dear!     Dear!     But  I  tell  'ee  'twill  be  a  fine  ship. 
There's  none  finer  in  any  of  the  slips  at  Chatham." 

The  third  Summer's  roses  have  started  in  to  blow, 
When  the  fine  stern  carving  is  begun. 
Flutings,  and  twinings,  and  long  slow  swirls, 
Bits  of  deal  shaved  away  to  thin  spiral  curls. 
Tap  !     Tap  !     A  cornucopia  is  nailed  into  place. 
Rap-a-tap !     They  are  putting  up  a  railing  filigreed 

like  Irish  lace. 
The  Three  Town's  people  never  saw  such  grace. 


188  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

And  the  paint  on  it !     The  richest  gold  leaf ! 

Why,  the  glitter  when  the  sun  is  shining  passes  belief. 

And  that  row  of  glass  windows  tipped  toward  the  sky 

Are  rubies  and  carbuncles  when  the  day  is  dry. 

Oh,  my !    Oh,  my ! 

They  have  coppered  up  the  bottom, 

And  the  copper  nails 

Stand  about  and  sparkle  in  big  wooden  pails. 

Bang !     Clash !    Bang ! 

"And  he  swigg'd,  and  Nick  swigg'd, 

And  Ben  swigg'd,  and  Dick  swigg'd, 
And  I  swigg'd,  and  all  of  us  swigg'd  it, 

And  swore  there  was  nothing  like  grog." 
It  seems  they  sing, 

Even  though  coppering  is  not  an  easy  thing. 
What   a  splendid  specimen  of   humanity  is   a   true 

British  workman, 

Say  the  people  of  the  Three  Towns, 
As  they  walk  about  the  dockyard 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS  189 

To  the  sound  of  the  evening  church -bells. 

And  so  artistic,  too,  each  one  tells  his  neighbour. 

What  immense  taste  and  labour  ! 

Miss  Jessie  Prime,  in  a  pink  silk  bonnet, 

Titters  with  delight  as  her  eyes  fall  upon  it, 

When  she  steps  lightly  down  from  Lawyer  Green's 

whisky ; 

Such  amazing  beauty  makes  one  feel  frisky, 
She  explains. 

Mr.  Nichols  says  he  is  delighted 
(He  is  the  firm) ; 
His  work  is  all  requited 
If  Miss  Jessie  can  approve. 
Miss  Jessie  answers  that  the  ship  is  "a  love." 
The  sides  are  yellow  as  marigold, 
The  port-lids  are  red  when  the  ports  are  up : 
Blood-red  squares  like  an  even  chequer 
Of  yellow  asters  and  portulaca. 
There  is  a  wide  "black  strake"  at  the  waterline 


190  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

And  above  is  a  blue  like  the  sky  when  the  weather  is  fine. 

The  inner  bulwarks  are  painted  red. 

"  Why  ?  "  asks  Miss  Jessie.     "  Tis  a  horrid  note." 

Mr.  Nichols  clears  his  throat, 

And  tells  her  the  launching  day  is  set. 

He  says,  "Be  careful,  the  paint  is  wet." 

But  Miss  Jessie  has  touched  it,  her  sprigged  muslin 

gown 

Has  a  blood-red  streak  from  the  shoulder  down. 
"It  looks  like  blood,"  says  Miss  Jessie  with  a  frown. 

Tap !    Tap !    Rap ! 

An  October  day,  with  waves  running  in  blue-white 

lines  and  a  capful  of  wind. 
Three  broad  flags  ripple  out  behind 
Where  the  masts  will  be  : 
Royal  Standard  at  the  mam, 
Admiralty  flag  at  the  fore, 
Union  Jack  at  the  mizzen. 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS  191 

The  hammers  tap  harder,  faster, 

They  must  finish  by  noon. 

The  last  nail  is  driven. 

But  the  wind  has  increased  to  half  a  gale, 

And  the  ship  shakes  and  quivers  upon  the  ways. 

The  Commissioner  of  Chatham  Dockyard  is  coming 

In  his  ten- oared  barge  from  the  King's  Stairs ; 

The  Marine's  band  will  play  "  God  Save  Great  George 

Our  King;" 
And  there  is  to  be  a  dinner  afterwards  at  the  Crown, 

with  speeches. 
The  wind   screeches,   and   flaps   the   flags   till  they 

pound  like  hammers. 
The  wind  hums  over  the  ship, 
And  slips  round  the  dog-shores, 
Jostling  them  almost  to  falling. 
There  is  no  time  now  to  wait  for  Commissioners 

and  marine  bands. 
Mr.  Nichols  has  a  bottle  of  port  in  his  hands. 


192  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

He  leans  over,  holding  his  hat,  and  shouts  to  the 

men  below : 
"Let  her  go!" 
Bang !    Bang !     Pound ! 
The  dog-shores  fall  to  the  ground, 
And  the  ship  slides  down  the  greased  planking. 
A  splintering  of  glass, 
And  port  wine  running  all  over  the  white  and  copper 

stem  timbers. 

"Success  to  his  Majesty's  ship,  the  Bellerophon ! " 
And  the  red  wine  washes  away  in  the  waters  of  the 

Medway. 

n 

PARIS,  MARCH,  1814 

FINE  yellow  sunlight  down  the  rue  du  Mont  Thabor. 
Ten   o'clock  striking   from  all   the   clock-towers  of 

Paris. 
Over  the  door  of  a  shop,  in  gilt  letters : 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS  193 

"Martin  —  Parfumeur,"  and  something  more. 

A  large  gilded  wooden  something. 

Listen  !     What  a  ringing  of  hammers  ! 

Tap! 

Tap! 

Squeak ! 

Tap !     Squeak !     Tap-a-tap ! 

"Blaise." 

"Oui,  M'sieu." 

"Don't  touch  the  letters.     My  name  stays." 

"Bien,  M'sieu." 

"Just  take  down  the  eagle,  and  the  shield  with  the 

bees." 

"  As  M'sieu  pleases." 
Tap !     Squeak !    Tap ! 
The  man  on  the  ladder  hammers  steadily  for  a  minute 

or  two, 
Then  stops. 
"IU!     Patron! 
o 


194  MEN,    WOMEN  AND   GHOSTS 

They  are  fastened  well,  Nom  d'un  Chien  I 
What  if  I  break  them?" 
"Break  away, 

You  and  Paul  must  have  them  down  to-day." 
"Bien." 

And  the  hammers  start  again, 
Drum-beating  at  the  something  of  gilded  wood. 
Sunshine  in  a  golden  flood 
Lighting  up  the  yellow  fronts  of  houses, 
Glittering  each  window  to  a  flash. 
Squeak !     Squeak !     Tap  ! 
The  hammers  beat  and  rap. 

A  Prussian  hussar  on  a  grey  horse  goes  by  at  a  dash. 
From  other  shops,  the  noise  of  striking  blows  : 
Pounds,  thumps,  and  whacks ; 
Wooden  sounds  :  splinters  —  cracks. 
Paris  is  full  of  the  galloping  of  horses  and  the  knock 
ing  of  hammers. 
"Hullo !  Friend  Martin,  is  business  slack 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS  195 

That  you  are  in  the  street  this  morning?     Don't 

turn  your  back 

And  scuttle  into  your  shop  like  a  rabbit  to  its  hole. 
I've  just  been  taking  a  stroll. 
The  stinking  Cossacks  are  bivouacked  all  up  and 

down  the  Champs  Elysees. 

I  can't  get  the  smell  of  them  out  of  my  nostrils. 
Dirty  fellows,  who  don't  believe  in  frills 
Like  washing.     Ah,  mon  vieux,  you'd  have  to  go 
Out  of  business  if  you  lived  in  Russia.     So ! 
We've  given  up  being  perfumers  to  the  Emperor, 

have  we  ? 
Blaise, 

Be  careful  of  the  hen, 

Maybe  I  can  find  a  use  for  her  one  of  these  days. 
That  eagle's  rather  well  cut,  Martin. 
But  I'm  sick  of  smelling  Cossack, 
Take  me  inside  and  let  me  put  my  head  into  a  stack 
Of  orris-root  and  musk." 


196  MEN,   WOMEN   AND   GHOSTS 

Within  the  shop,  the  light  is  dimmed  to  a  pearl-and- 

green  dusk 
Out  of  which  dreamily  sparkle  counters  and  shelves 

of  glass, 
Containing  phials,  and  bowls,  and  jars,  and  dishes; 

a  mass 
Of  aqueous  transparence  made  solid  .by  threads  of 

gold. 

Gold  and  glass, 
And  scents  which  whiff  across  the  green  twilight  and 

pass. 

The  perfumer  sits  down  and  shakes  his  head : 
"Always  the  same,  Monsieur  Antoine, 
You  artists  are  wonderful  folk  indeed." 
But  Antoine  Vernet  does  not  heed. 
He  is  reading  the  names  on  the  bottles  and  bowls, 
Done  in  fine  gilt  letters  with  wonderful  scrolls. 
"What  have  we  here?     'Eau  Imperial  Odontalgique.' 
I  must  say,  mon  cher,  your  names  are  chic. 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  197 

But  it  won't  do,  positively  it  will  not  do. 

Elba  doesn't  count.     Ah,  here  is  another : 

'  Baume  du  Commandeur.'     That's  better.     He  needs 

something  to  smother 
Regrets.     A  little  lubricant,  too, 
Might  be  useful.     I  have  it, 
'Sage  Oil,'  perhaps  he'll  be  good  now;  with  it  we'll 

submit 

This  fine  German  rouge.     I  fear  he  is  pale." 
''Monsieur  Antoine,  don't  rail 
At  misfortune.     He  treated  me  well  and  fairly." 
"And  you  prefer  him  to  Bourbons,  admit  it  squarely." 
"Heaven  forbid!"     Bang!     Whack! 
Squeak !     Squeak !     Crack ! 
CRASH ! 

"Oh,  Lord,  Martin !     That  shield  is  hash. 
The  whole  street  is  covered  with  golden  bees. 
They  look  like  so  many  yellow  peas, 
Lying  there  in  the  mud.     I'd  like  to  paint  it. 


198  MEN,   WOMEN  AND   GHOSTS 

'Plum  pudding  of  Empire.'     That's  rather  quaint,  it 

Might  take  with  the  Kings.     Shall  I  try  ?  "     "  Oh,  Sir, 

You  distress  me,  you  do."     "Poor  old  Martin's  purr  ! 

But  he  hasn't  a  scratch  in  him,  I  know. 

Now  let  us  get  back  to  the  powders  and  patches. 

Foolish  man, 

The  Kings  are  here  now.     We  must  hit  on  a  plan 

To  change  all  these  titles  as  fast  as  we  can. 

'Bouquet  ImpSratrice.'     Tut!     Tut!     Give  me  some 

ink- 

'  Bouquet  de  la  Reine,'  what  do  you  think  ? 
Not  the  same  receipt  ? 
Now,  Martin,  put  away  your  conceit. 
Who  will  ever  know  ? 
*  Extract  of  Nobility '  —  excellent,  since  most  of  thei 

are  killed." 

"But,  Monsieur  Antoine  — " 
"You  are  self-willed, 
Martin.     You  need  a  salve 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  199 

For  your  conscience,  do  you  ? 

Very  well,  we'll  halve 

The  compliments,  also  the  pastes  and  dentifrices; 

Send  some  to  the  Kings,  and  some  to  the  Em 
presses. 

'  Oil  of  Bitter  Almonds '  —  the  Empress  Josephine  can 
have  that. 

'Oil  of  Parma  Violets'  fits  the  other  one  pat." 

Rap  !     Rap !    Bang ! 

"What  a  hideous  clatter  ! 

Blaise  seems  determined  to  batter 

That  poor  old  turkey  into  bits, 

And  pound  to  jelly  my  excellent  wits. 

Come,  come,  Martin,  you  mustn't  shirk. 

'The  night  cometh  soon'  —  etc.     Don't  jerk 

Me  up  like  that.     'Essence  de  la  Valliere  - 

That  has  a  charmingly  Bourbon  air. 

And,  oh !  Magnificent !     Listen  to  this !  — 

4  Vinaigre  des  Quatre  Voleurs.'     Nothing  amiss 


200  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

With  that  —  England,  Austria,  Russia  and  Prussia ! 

Martin,  you're  a  wonder, 

Upheavals  of  continents  can't  keep  you  under." 

"Monsieur  Antoine,  I  am  grieved  indeed 

At  such  levity.     What  France  has  gone  through — " 

"Very  true,  Martin,  very  true, 

But  never  forget  that  a  man  must  feed." 

Pound !     Pound !    Thump ! 

Pound ! 

"Look  here,  in  another  minute  Blaise  will  drop  that 

bird  on  the  ground." 
Martin    shrugs    his    shoulders.     "Ah,    well,    what 

then?—" 
Antoine,  with  a  laugh:    "I'll  give  you  two  sous  for 

that  antiquated  hen." 
The  Imperial  Eagle  sells  for  two  sous, 
And  the  lilies  go  up. 

A  man  must  choose ! 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  201 

III 

PARIS,  APRIL,  1814 

COLD,  impassive,  the  marble  arch  of  the  Place  du 
Carrousel. 

Haughty,  contemptuous,  the  marble  arch  of  the 
Place  du  Carrousel. 

Like  a  woman  raped  by  force,  rising  above  her  fate, 

Borne  up  by  the  cold  rigidity  of  hate, 

Stands  the  marble  arch  of  the  Place  du  Carrousel. 

Tap !     Clink-a-tink ! 

Tap!     Rap!     Chink! 

What  falls  to  the  ground  like  a  streak  of  flame  ? 

Hush !     It  is  only  a  bit  of  bronze  flashing  in  the  sun. 

What  are  all  those  soldiers?  Those  are  not  the 
uniforms  of  France. 

Alas !  No !  The  uniforms  of  France,  Great  Im 
perial  France,  are  done. 

They  will  rot  away  in  chests  and  hang  to  dusty 
tatters  in  barn  lofts. 


202  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

These  are  other  armies.     And  their  name  ? 

Hush,  be  still  for  shame ; 

Be  still  and  imperturbable  like  the  marble  arch. 

Another  bright  spark  falls  through  the  blue  air. 

Over  the  Place  du  Carrousel  a  wailing  of  despair. 

Crowd  your  horses  back  upon  the  people,  Uhlans 

and  Hungarian  Lancers, 
They  see  too  much. 
Unfortunately,  Gentlemen  of  the  Invading  Armies, 

what  they  do  not  see,  they  hear. 
Tap !    Clink-a-tink ! 
Tap! 

Another  sharp  spear 
Of  brightness, 

And  a  ringing  of  quick  metal  lightness 
On  hard  stones. 
Workmen  are  chipping  off  the  names  of  Napoleon's 

victories 
From  the  triumphal  arch  of  the  Place  du  Carrousel. 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND   GHOSTS  203 

Do  they  need  so  much  force  to  quell  the  crowd  ? 
An  old  Grenadier  of  the  line  groans  aloud, 
And  each  hammer  tap  points  the  sob  of  a  woman. 
Russia,   Prussia,   Austria,   and   the   faded-white-lily 

Bourbon  king 
Think  it  well 
To  guard  against  tumult, 
A  mob  is  an  undependable  thing. 
Ding !    Ding ! 

Vienna  is  scattered  all  over  the  Place  du  Carrousel 
In  glittering,  bent,  and  twisted  letters. 
Your  betters  have  clattered  over  Vienna  before, 
Officer  of  his  Imperial  Majesty  our  Father-in-Law ! 
Tink!    Tink! 

A  workman's  chisel  can  strew  you  to  the  winds, 
Munich. 
Do  they  think 

To  pleasure  Paris,  used  to  the  fall  of  cities, 
By  giving  her  a  fall  of  letters  ! 


204  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

It  is  a  month  too  late. 

One  month,  and  our  lily-white  Bourbon  king 

Has  done  a  colossal  thing ; 

He  has  curdled  love, 

And  soured  the  desires  of  a  people. 

Still  the  letters  fall, 

The  workmen  creep  up  and  down  their  ladders  like 

lizards  on  a  wall. 
Tap !    Tap  !    Tink ! 
Clink!    Clink! 

"Oh,  merciful  God,  they  will  not  touch  Austerlitz  ! 
Strike  me  blind,  my  God,  my  eyes  can  never  look  on  that. 
I  would  give  the  other  leg  to  save  it,  it  took  one. 
Curse  them  !     Curse  them  !     Aim  at  his  hat. 
Give  me  the  stone.     Why  didn't  you  give  it  to  me  ? 
I  would  not  have  missed.     Curse  him ! 
Curse  all  of  them !     They  have  got  the  'AM" 
Ding !    Ding ! 
"I  saw  the  Terror,  but  I  never  saw  so  horrible  a 

thing  as  this. 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS  205 

Vive  rEmpereur  !     Vive  VEmpereur  !  " 

"Don't  strike  him,  Fritz. 

The  mob  will  rise  if  you  do. 

Just  run  him  out  to  the  quai, 

That  will  get  him  out  of  the  way. 

They  are  almost  through." 

Clink!    Tink!    Ding! 

Clear  as  the  sudden  ring 

Of  a  bell 

"Z"  strikes  the  pavement. 

Farewell,  Austerlitz,  Tilsit,  Presbourg ; 

Farewell,  greatness  departed. 

Farewell,  Imperial   honours,  knocked   broadcast   by 

the  beating  hammers  of  ignorant  workmen. 
Straight,  in  the  Spring  moonlight, 
Rises  the  deflowered  arch. 
In  the  silence,  shining  bright, 
She  stands  naked  and  unsubdued. 
Her  marble  coldness  will  endure  the  march 
Of  decades. 


206  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

Rend  her  bronzes,  hammers  ; 

Cast  down  her  inscriptions. 

She  is  unconquerable,  austere, 

Cold  as  the  moon  that  swims  above  her 

When  the  nights  are  clear. 

IV 

CROISSY,  ILE-DE-FRANCE,  JUNE,  1815 
"WHOA!    Victorine. 
Devil  take  the  mare  !     I've  never  seen  so  vicious  a 

beast. 

She  kicked  Jules  the  last  time  she  was  here, 
He's  been  lame  ever  since,  poor  chap." 
Rap !    Tap ! 

Tap-a-tap-a-tap  !    Tap  !    Tap ! 
"I'd  rather  be  lame  than  dead  at  Waterloo,  M'sieu 

Charles." 
"SacrS   Bleu!     Don't   mention   Waterloo,    and   the 

damned  grinning  British. 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  207 

We  didn't  run  in  the  old  days. 
There  wasn't  any  running  at  Jena. 
Those  were  decent  days, 
And  decent  men,  who  stood  up  and  fought. 
We  never  got  beaten,  because  we  wouldn't  be. 
See!" 

"You  would  have  taught  them,  wouldn't  you,  Ser 
geant  Boignet  ? 

But  to-day  it's  everyone  for  himself, 
And  the  Emperor  isn't  what  he  was." 
"How  the  Devil  do  you  know  that? 
If  he  was  beaten,  the  cause 
Is  the  green  geese  in  his  army,  led  by  traitors. 
Oh,  I  say  no  names,  Monsieur  Charles, 
You  needn't  hammer  so  loud. 

If  there  are  any  spies  lurking  behind  the  bellows, 
I  beg  they  come  out.     Dirty  fellows  !" 
The  old  Sergeant  seizes  a  red-hot  poker 
And  advances,  brandishing  it,  into  the  shadows. 


MEN,   WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS 

The  rows  of  horses  flick 

Placid  tails. 

Victorine  gives  a  savage  kick 

As  the  nails 

Go  in.     Tap!    Tap! 

Jules  draws  a  horseshoe  from  the  fire 

And  beats  it  from  red  to  peacock-blue  and  black, 

Purpling  darker  at  each  whack. 

Ding !    Dang  !     Dong ! 

Ding-a-ding-dong ! 

It  is  a  long  time  since  any  one  spoke. 

Then  the  blacksmith  brushes  his  hand  over  his  eyes, 

"Well,"  he  sighs, 

"He's  broke." 

The  Sergeant  charges  out  from  behind  the  bellows, 

"It's  the  green  geese,  I  tell  you, 

Their  hearts  are  all  whites  and  yellows, 

There's  no  red  in  them.     Red  ! 

That's  what  we  want.     Fouche  should  be  fed 

To  the  guillotine,  and  all  Paris  dance  the  carmagnole. 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS  209 

That  would  breed  jolly  fine  lick-bloods 

To  lead  his  armies  to  victory." 

"Ancient  history,  Sergeant. 

He's  done." 

"Say  that  again,  Monsieur  Charles,  and  I'll  stun 

You  where  you  stand  for  a  dung-eating  Royalist." 

The  Sergeant  gives  the  poker  a  savage  twist ; 

He  is  as  purple  as  the  cooling  horseshoes. 

The  air  from  the  bellows  creaks  through  the  flues. 

Tap  !     Tap  !     The  blacksmith  shoes  Victorine, 

And  through  the  doorway  a  fine  sheen 

Of  leaves  flutters,  with  the  sun  between. 

By  a  spurt  of  fire  from  the  forge 

You  can  see  the  Sergeant,  with  swollen  gorge, 

Puffing,  and  gurgling,  and  choking ; 

The  bellows  keep  on  croaking. 

They  wheeze, 

And  sneeze, 

Creak  !     Bang !     Squeeze  ! 

And  the  hammer  strokes  fall  like  buzzing  bees 


210  MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS 

Or  pattering  rain, 

Or  faster  than  these, 

Like  the  hum  of  a  waterfall  struck  by  a  breeze. 

Clank!  from  the  bellows-chain  pulled  up  and  down. 

Clank! 

And  sunshine  twinkles  on  Victorine's  flank, 

Starting  it  to  blue, 

Dropping  it  to  black. 

Clack!    Clack! 

Tap-a-tap !     Tap ! 

Lord  !     What  galloping  !     Some  mishap 

Is  making  that  man  ride  so  furiously. 

"Francois,  you! 

Victorine  won't  be  through 

For  another  quarter  of  an  hour."     "As  you  hope  to 

die, 

Work  faster,  man,  the  order  has  come." 
"What  order  ?     Speak  out.     Are  you  dumb  ?" 
"A  chaise,  without  arms  on  the  panels,  at  the  gate 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND   GHOSTS  211 

In  the  far  side-wall,  and  just  to  wait. 

We  must  be  there  in  half  an  hour  with  swift  cattle. 

You're  a  stupid  fool  if  you  don't  hear  that  rattle. 

Those  are  German  guns.     Can't  you  guess  the  rest? 

Nantes,  Rochefort,  possibly  Brest." 

Tap !     Tap  !  as  though  the  hammers  were  mad. 

Dang  !     Ding  !     Creak  !     The  farrier's  lad 

Jerks  the  bellows  till  he  cracks  their  bones, 

And  the  stifled  air  hiccoughs  and  groans. 

The  Sergeant  is  lying  on  the  floor 

Stone  dead,  and  his  hat  with  the  tricol&re 

Cockade  has  rolled  off  into  the  cinders.     Victorine 

snorts  and  lays  back  her  ears. 
What  glistens  on  the  anvil  ?    Sweat  or  tears  ? 

V 

ST.  HELENA,  MAY,  1821 
TAP  !    Tap !    Tap  ! 

Through  the  white  tropic  night. 


212  MEN,   WOMEN   AND   GHOSTS 

Tap !    Tap ! 
Beat  the  hammers, 
Unwearied,  indefatigable. 

They  are  hanging  dull  black  cloth  about  the  dead. 
Lustreless  black  cloth 

Which  chokes  the  radiance  of  the  moonlight 
And  puts  out  the  little  moving  shadows  of  leaves. 
Tap !  Tap  ! 

The  knocking  makes  the  candles  quaver, 
And  the  long  black  hangings  waver 
Tap !    Tap !    Tap  ! 
Tap !    Tap ! 

In  the  ears  which  do  not  heed. 
Tap!    Tap! 

Above  the  eyelids  which  do  not  nicker. 
Tap !    Tap ! 

Over  the  hands  which  do  not  stir. 
Chiselled  like  a  cameo  of  white  agate  against  the 
hangings, 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  213 

Struck  to  brilliance  by  the  falling  moonlight, 

A  face ! 

Sharp  as  a  frozen  flame, 

Beautiful  as  an  altar  lamp  of  silver, 

And  still.     Perfectly  still. 

In  the  next  room,  the  men  chatter 

As  they  eat  their  midnight  lunches. 

A  knife  hits  against  a  platter. 

But  the  figure  on  the  bed 

Between  the  stifling  black  hangings 

Is  cold  and  motionless, 

Played  over  by  the  moonlight  from  the  windows 

And  the  indistinct  shadows  of  leaves. 

Tap!    Tap  i 

Upholsterer  Darling  has  a  fine  shop  in  Jamestown. 
Tap !    Tap ! 

Andrew  Darling  has  ridden  hard  from  Longwood  to 
see  to  the  work  in  his  shop  in  Jamestown. 


214  MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS 

He  has  a  corps  of  men  in  it,  toiling  and  swearing, 

Knocking,  and  measuring,  and  planing,  and  squaring, 

Working  from  a  chart  with  figures, 

Comparing  with  their  rules, 

Setting  this  and  that  part  together  with  their  tools. 

Tap  !    Tap !    Tap ! 

Haste  indeed ! 

So  great  is  the  need 

That  carpenters  have  been  taken  from  the  new  church, 

Joiners   have   been   called   from   shaping   pews   and 

lecterns 

To  work  of  greater  urgency. 
Coffins ! 
Coffins  is  what  they  are  making  this  bright  Summer 

morning. 

Coffins  —  and  all  to  measurement. 
There  is  a  tin  coffin, 
A  deal  coffins 
A  lead  coffin, 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  215 

And  Captain  Bennett's  best  mahogany  dining-table 

Has  been  sawed  up  for  the  grand  outer  coffin. 

Tap !    Tap !     Tap ! 

Sunshine  outside  in  the  square, 

But  inside,  only  hollow  coffins  and  the  tapping  upon 

them. 

The  men  whistle, 

And  the  coffins  grow  under  their  hammers 
In  the  darkn'ess  of  the  shop. 
Tap !    Tap !     Tap ! 

Tramp  of  men. 
Steady  tramp  of  men. 
Slit-eyed  Chinese  with  long  pigtails 
Bearing  oblong  things  upon  their  shoulders 
March  slowly  along  the  road  to  Longwood. 
Their  feet  fall  softly  in  the  dust  of  the  road ; 
Sometimes  they  call  gutturally  to  each  other  and  stop 
to  shift  shoulders. 


216  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

Four  coffins  for  the  little  dead  man, 

Four  fine  coffins, 

And  one  of  them  Captain  Bennett's  dining-table  ! 

And  sixteen  splendid  Chinamen,  all  strong  and  able 

And  of  assured  neutrality. 

Ah !     George  of  England,  Lord  Bathhurst  &  Co. 

Your  princely  munificence  makes  one's  heart  glow. 

Huzza  !     Huzza !    For  the  Lion  of  England  ! 

Tap !    Tap !    Tap ! 

Marble  likeness  of  an  Emperor, 

Dead  man,  who  burst  your  heart  against  a  work! 

too  narrow, 

The  hammers  drum  you  to  your  last  throne 
Which  always  you  shall  hold  alone. 
Tap !    Tap ! 

The  glory  of  your  past  is  faded  as  a  sunset  fire, 
Your  day  lingers  only  like  the  tones  of  a  wind-lyr^ 
In  a  twilit  room. 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  217 

Here  is  the  emptiness  of  your  dream 

Scattered  about  you. 

Coins  of  yesterday, 

Double  napoleons  stamped  with  Consul  or  Emperor; 

Strange  as  those  of  Herculaneum  — 

And  you  just  dead ! 

Not  one  spool  of  thread 

Will  these  buy  in  any  market-place. 

Lay  them  over  him, 

They  are  the  baubles  of  a  crown  of  mist 

Worn  in  a  vision  and  melted  away  at  waking. 

Tap !    Tap ! 

His  heart  strained  at  kingdoms 

And  now  it  is  content  with  a  silver  dish. 

Strange  World !     Strange  Wayfarer ! 

Strange  Destiny ! 

Lower  it  gently  beside  him  and  let  it  lie. 

Tap !    Tap !    Tap ! 


218  MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS 


TWO     TRAVELLERS     IN     THE     PLACE 

VENDOME 
REIGN  OF  Louis  PHILIPPE 

A  GREAT  tall  column  spearing  at  the  sky 
With  a  little  man  on  top.     Goodness  !     Tell  me  why  ? 
He  looks  a  silly  thing  enough  to  stand  up  there  so 
high. 

What  a  strange  fellow,  like  a  soldier  in  a  play, 
Tight-fitting  coat  with  the  tails  cut  away, 
High-crowned  hat  which  the  brims  overlay. 

Two-horned  hat  makes  an  outline  like  a  bow. 
Must  have  a  sword,  I  can  see  the  light  glow 
Between  a  dark  line  and  his  leg.     Vertigo 


MEN,   WOMEN  AND   GHOSTS  219 

I  get  gazing  up  at  him,  a  pygmy  flashed  with  sun. 
A  weathercock  or  scarecrow  or  both  things  in  one  ? 
As  bright  as  a  jewelled  crown  hung  above  a  throne. 

Say,  what  is  the  use  of  him  if  he  doesn't  turn  ? 
Just  put  up  to  glitter  there,  like  a  torch  to  burn, 
A  sort  of  sacrificial  show  in  a  lofty  urn  ? 

But  why  a  little  soldier  in  an  obsolete  dress  ? 
I'd  rather  see  a  Goddess  with  a  spear,  I  confess. 
Something  allegorical  and  fine.     Why,  yes  — 

I  cannot  take  my  eyes  from  him.     I  don't  know  why 

at  all. 
I've  looked  so  long  the  whole  thing  swims.     I  feel 

he  ought  to  fall. 
Foreshortened  there  among  the  clouds  he's  pitifully 

small. 


220  MEN,   WOMEN   AND   GHOSTS 

What  do  you  say?    There  used  to  be  an  Emperor 

standing  there, 
With  flowing  robes  and  laurel  crown.     Really  ?     Yet 

I  declare 
Those  spiral  battles  round  the  shaft  don't  seem  just 

his  affair. 

A  togaed,  laurelled  man's  I  mean.     Now  this  chap 

seems  to  feel 
As  though  he  owned  those  soldiers.     Whew !     How 

he  makes  one  reel, 
Swinging  round  above  his  circling  armies  in  a  wheel. 

Sweeping  round  the  sky  in  an  orbit  like  the  sun's, 
Flashing  sparks  like  cannon-balls  from  his  own  long 

guns. 
Perhaps  my  sight  is  tired,  but  that  figure  simply  stuns. 


MEN,   WOMEN  AND   GHOSTS  221 

How  low  the  houses  seem,  and  all  the  people  are 

mere  flies. 
That  fellow  pokes  his  hat  up  till  it  scratches  on  the 

skies. 
Impudent!    Audacious!    But,  by  Jove,  he  blinds 

the  eyes ! 


WAR  PICTURES 


THE  ALLIES 

AUGUST  14TH,  1914 

INTO  the  brazen,  burnished  sky,  the  cry  hurls  itself. 
The  zigzagging  cry  of  hoarse  throats,  it  floats  against 
the  hard  winds,  and  binds  the  head  of  the  serpent 
to  its  tail,  the  long  snail-slow  serpent  of  marching 
men.  Men  weighed  down  with  rifles  and  knapsacks, 
and  parching  with  war.  The  cry  jars  and  splits 
against  the  brazen,  burnished  sky. 

This  is  the  war  of  wars,  and  the  cause?  Has  this 
writhing  worm  of  men  a  cause  ? 

Crackling  against  the  polished  sky  is  an  eagle  with 
a  sword.  The  eagle  is  red  and  its  head  is  flame. 

In  the  shoulder  of  the  worm  is  a  teacher. 

His  tongue  laps  the  war-sucked  air  in  drought, 

but  he  yells  defiance  at  the  red-eyed  eagle,  and  in  his 
Q 


226  MEN,    WOMEN   AND   GHOSTS 

ears  are  the  bells  of  new  philosophies,  and  their  tink 
ling  drowns  the  sputter  of  the  burning  sword.  He 
shrieks,  "God  damn  you!  When  you  are  broken, 
the  word  will  strike  out  new  shoots." 

His  boots  are  tight,  the  sun  is  hot,  and  he  may  be 
shot,  but  he  is  in  the  shoulder  of  the  worm. 

A  dust  speck  in  the  worm's  belly  is  a  poet. 

He  laughs  at  the  flaring  eagle  and  makes  a  long 
nose  with  his  fingers.  He  will  fight  for  smooth,  white 
sheets  of  paper,  and  uncurdled  ink.  The  sputtering 
sword  cannot  make  him  blink,  and  his  thoughts  are 
wet  and  rippling.  They  cool  his  heart. 

He  will  tear  the  eagle  out  of  the  sky  and  give  the 
earth  tranquillity,  and  loveliness  printed  on  white 
paper. 

The  eye  of  the  serpent  is  an  owner  of  mills. 
He  looks  at  the  glaring  sword  which  has  snapped 
his  machinery  and  struck  away  his  men. 


MEN,   WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS  227 

But  it  will  all  come  again,  when  the  sword  is 
broken  to  a  million  dying  stars,  and  there  are  no  more 
wars. 

Bankers,  butchers,  shop-keepers,  painters,  farmers 
—  men,  sway  and  sweat.  They  will  fight  for  the 
earth,  for  the  increase  of  the  slow,  sure  roots  of  peace, 
for  the  release  of  hidden  forces.  They  jibe  at  the 
eagle  and  his  scorching  sword. 

One !  Two !  —  One !  Two !  —  clump  the  heavy 
boots.  The  cry  hurtles  against  the  sky. 

Each  man  pulls  his  belt  a  little  tighter,  and  shifts 
his  gun  to  make  it  lighter.  Each  man  thinks  of  a 
woman,  and  slaps  out  a  curse  at  the  eagle.  The 
sword  jumps  in  the  hot  sky,  and  the  worm  crawls  on 
to  the  battle,  stubbornly. 

This  is  the  war  of  wars,  from  eye  to  tail  the  serpent 
has  one  cause : 

PEACE ! 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS 


THE  BOMBARDMENT 

SLOWLY,  without  force,  the  rain  drops  into  the 
city.  It  stops  a  moment  on  the  carved  head  of 
Saint  John,  then  slides  on  again,  slipping  and  trick 
ling  over  his  stone  cloak.  It  splashes  from  the 
lead  conduit  of  a  gargoyle,  and  falls  from  it  in 
turmoil  on  the  stones  in  the  Cathedral  square. 
Where  are  the  people,  and  why  does  the  fretted 
steeple  sweep  about  in  the  sky  ?  Boom  !  The  sound 
swings  against  the  rain.  Boom,  again  !  After  it,  only 
water  rushing  in  the  gutters,  and  the  turmoil  from 
the  spout  of  the  gargoyle.  Silence.  Ripples  and 
mutters.  Boom ! 

The  room  is  damp,  but  warm.  Little  flashes 
swarm  about  from  the  firelight.  The  lustres  of  the 
chandelier  are  bright,  and  clusters  of  rubies  leap  in 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  229 

the  bohemian  glasses  on  the  itagere.  Her  hands  are 
restless,  but  the  white  masses  of  her  hair  are  quite 
still.  Boom !  Will  it  never  cease  to  torture,  this 
iteration !  Boom !  The  vibration  shatters  a  glass 
on  the  Stagere.  It  lies  there,  formless  and  glowing, 
with  all  its  crimson  gleams  shot  out  of  pattern, 
spilled,  flowing  red,  blood-red.  A  thin  bell-note 
pricks  through  the  silence.  A  door  creaks.  The 
old  lady  speaks:  "Victor,  clear  away  that  broken 
glass."  "Alas!  Madame,  the  bohemian  glass!" 
"Yes,  Victor,  one  hundred  years  ago  my  father 
brought  it  — "  Boom  !  The  room  shakes,  the  servi 
tor  quakes.  Another  goblet  shivers  and  breaks. 
Boom! 

It  rustles  at  the  window-pane,  the  smooth,  stream 
ing  rain,  and  he  is  shut  within  its  clash  and  murmur. 
Inside  is  his  candle,  his  table,  his  ink,  his  pen,  and 
his  dreams.  He  is  thinking,  and  the  walls  are  pierced 


230  MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS 

with  beams  of  sunshine,  slipping  through  young  green. 
A  fountain  tosses  itself  up  at  the  blue  sky,  and  through 
the  spattered  water  in  the  basin  he  can  see  copper 
carp,  lazily  floating  among  cold  leaves.  A  wind- 
harp  in  a  cedar-tree  grieves  and  whispers,  and  words 
blow  into  his  brain,  bubbled,  iridescent,  shooting 
up  like  flowers  of  fire,  higher  and  higher.  Boom! 
The  flame-flowers  snap  on  their  slender  stems.  The 
fountain  rears  up  in  long  broken  spears  of  dishevelled 
water  and  flattens  into  the  earth.  Boom!  And 
there  is  only  the  room,  the  table,  the  candle,  and 
the  sliding  rain.  Again,  Boom  !  —  Boom !  —  Boom ! 
He  stuffs  his  fingers  into  his  ears.  He  sees  corpses, 
and  cries  out  in  fright.  Boom!  It  is  night,  and 
they  are  shelling  the  city!  Boom!  Boom! 

A  child  wakes  and  is  afraid,  and  weeps  in  the 
darkness.  What  has  made  the  bed  shake  ?  "Mother, 
where  are  you?  I  am  awake.'*  "Hush,  my  Dar- 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  231 

ling,  I  am  here."  "But,  Mother,  something  so 
queer  happened,  the  room  shook."  Boom!  "Oh! 
What  is  it?  What  is  the  matter  ?"  Boom!  "Where 
is  Father?  I  am  so  afraid."  Boom!  The  child 
sobs  and  shrieks.  The  house  trembles  and  creaks. 
Boom ! 

Retorts,  globes,  tubes,  and  phials  lie  shattered. 
All  his  trials  oozing  across  the  floor.  The  life  that 
was  his  choosing,  lonely,  urgent,  goaded  by  a  hope, 
all  gone.  A  weary  man  in  a  ruined  laboratory, 
that  is  his  story.  Boom !  Gloom  and  ignorance, 
and  the  jig  of  drunken  brutes.  Diseases  like  snakes 
crawling  over  the  earth,  leaving  trails  of  slime. 
Wails  from  people  burying  their  dead.  Through 
the  window,  he  can  see  the  rocking  steeple.  A  ball 
of  fire  falls  on  the  lead  of  the  roof,  and  the  sky  tears 
apart  on  a  spike  of  flame.  Up  the  spire,  behind  the 
lacings  of  stone,  zigzagging  in  and  out  of  the  carved 


232  MEN,    WOMEN   AND   GHOSTS 

tracings,  squirms  the  fire.  It  spouts  like  yellow  wheat 
from  the  gargoyles,  coils  round  the  head  of  Saint  John, 
and  aureoles  him  in  light.  It  leaps  into  the  night 
and  hisses  against  the  rain.  The  Cathedral  is  a 
burning  stain  on  the  white,  wet  night. 

Boom !  The  Cathedral  is  a  torch,  and  the  houses 
next  to  it  begin  to  scorch.  Boom !  The  bohemian 
glass  on  the  Stag  ere  is  no  longer  there.  Boom !  A 
stalk  of  flame  sways  against  the  red  damask  cur 
tains.  The  old  lady  cannot  walk.  She  watches 
the  creeping  stalk  and  counts.  Boom !  —  Boom  !  — 
Boom! 

The  poet  rushes  into  the  street,  and  the  rain  wraps 
him  in  a  sheet  of  silver.  But  it  is  threaded  with  gold 
and  powdered  with  scarlet  beads.  The  city  burns. 
Quivering,  spearing,  thrusting,  lapping,  streaming, 
run  the  flames.  Over  roofs,  and  walls,  and  shops, 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND   GHOSTS  233* 

and  stalls.  Smearing  its  gold  on  the  sky,  the  fire 
dances,  lances  itself  through  the  doors,  and  lisps  and 
chuckles  along  the  floors. 

The  child  wakes  again  and  screams  at  the  yellow 
petalled  flower  flickering  at  the  window.  The  little 
red  lips  of  flame  creep  along  the  ceiling  beams. 

The  old  man  sits  among  his  broken  experiments 
and  looks  at  the  burning  Cathedral.  Now  the  streets 
are  swarming  with  people.  They  seek  shelter  and 
crowd  into  the  cellars.  They  shout  and  call,  and 
over  all,  slowly  and  without  force,  the  rain  drops 
into  the  city.  Boom !  And  the  steeple  crashes 
down  among  the  people.  Boom !  Boom,  again ! 
The  water  rushes  along  the  gutters.  The  fire  roars 
and  mutters.  Boom ! 


234  MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS 


LEAD   SOLDIERS 

THE  nursery  fire  burns  brightly,  crackling  in  cheer 
ful  little  explosions  and  trails  of  sparks  up  the  back  of 
the  chimney.  Miniature  rockets  peppering  the  black 
bricks  with  golden  stars,  as  though  a  gala  flamed  a 
night  of  victorious  wars. 

The  nodding  mandarin  on  the  bookcase  moves  his 
head  forward  and  back,  slowly,  and  looks  into  the  air 
with  his  blue-green  eyes.  He  stares  into  the  air  and 
nods  —  forward  and  back.  The  red  rose  in  his  hand 
is  a  crimson  splash  on  his  yellow  coat.  Forward  and 
back,  and  his  blue-green  eyes  stare  into  the  air,  and 
he  nods  —  nods. 

Tommy's  soldiers  march  to  battle, 
Trumpets  flare  and  snare-drums  rattle. 
Bayonets  flash,  and  sabres  glance  — 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS  235 

How  the  horses  snort  and  prance ! 

Cannon  drawn  up  in  a  line 

Glitter  in  the  dizzy  shine 

Of  the  morning  sunlight.     Flags 

Ripple  colours  in  great  jags. 

Red  blows  out,  then  blue,  then  green, 

Then  all  three  —  a  weaving  sheen 

Of  prismed  patriotism.     March 

Tommy's  soldiers,  stiff  and  starch, 

Boldly  stepping  to  the  rattle 

Of  the  drums,  they  go  to  battle. 

Tommy  lies  on  his  stomach  on  the  floor  and  directs 
his  columns.  He  puts  his  infantry  in  front,  and  be 
fore  them  ambles  a  mounted  band.  Their  instru 
ments  make  a  strand  of  gold  before  the  scarlet- 
tunicked  soldiers,  and  they  take  very  long  steps  on 
their  little  green  platforms,  and  from  the  ranks 
bursts  the  song  of  Tommy's  soldiers  marching  to 


236  MEN,   WOMEN"   AND    GHOSTS 

battle.  The  song  jolts  a  little  as  the  green  platforms 
stick  on  the  thick  carpet.  Tommy  wheels  his  guns 
round  the  edge  of  a  box  of  blocks,  and  places  a  squad 
of  cavalry  on  the  commanding  eminence  of  a  footstool. 

The  fire  snaps  pleasantly,  and  the  old  Chinaman 
nods  —  nods.  The  fire  makes  the  red  rose  in  his 
hand  glow  and  twist.  Hist!  That  is  a  bold  song 
Tommy's  soldiers  sing  as  they  march  along  to  battle. 

Crack  !     Rattle !     The  sparks  fly  up  the  chimney. 

Tommy's  army's  off  to  war  — 
Not  a  soldier  knows  what  for. 
But  he  knows  about  his  rifle, 
How  to  shoot  it,  and  a  trifle 
Of  the  proper  thing  to  do 
When  it's  he  who  is  shot  through. 
Like  a  cleverly  trained  flea, 
He  can  follow  instantly 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND   GHOSTS  237 

Orders,  and  some  quick  commands 

Really  make  severe  demands 

On  a  mind  that's  none  too  rapid, 

Leaden  brains  tend  to  the  vapid. 

But  how  beautifully  dressed 

Is  this  army  !     How  impressed 

Tommy  is  when  at  his  heel 

All  his  baggage  wagons  wheel 

About  the  patterned  carpet,  and 

Moving  up  his  heavy  guns 

He  sees  them  glow  with  diamond  suns 

Flashing  all  along  each  barrel. 

And  the  gold  and  blue  apparel 

Of  his  gunners  is  a  joy. 

Tommy  is  a  lucky  boy. 

Boom !    Boom !    Ta-ra ! 

The  old  mandarin  nods  under  his  purple  umbrella. 
The  rose  in  his  hand  shoots  its  petals  up  in  thin 


238  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

quills  of  crimson.     Then  they  collapse  and  shrivel 
like  red  embers.     The  fire  sizzles. 

Tommy  is  galloping  his  cavalry,  two  by  two,  over 
the  floor.  They  must  pass  the  open  terror  of  the 
door  and  gain  the  enemy  encamped  under  the  wash- 
stand.  The  mounted  band  is  very  grand,  playing 
allegro  and  leading  the  infantry  on  at  the  double 
quick.  The  tassel  of  the  hearth-rug  has  flung  down 
the  bass-drum,  and  he  and  his  dapple-grey  horse  lie 
overtripped,  slipped  out  of  line,  with  the  little  lead 
drumsticks  glistening  to  the  fire's  shine. 

The  fire  burns  and  crackles,  and  tickles  the  tripped 
bass-drum  with  its  sparkles. 

The  marching  army  hitches  its  little  green  platforms 
valiantly,  and  steadily  approaches  the  door.  The 
overturned  bass-drummer,  lying  on  the  hearth-rug, 
melting  in  the  heat,  softens  and  sheds  tears.  The  song 
jeers  at  his  impotence,  and  flaunts  the  glory  of  the 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND   GHOSTS  239 

martial  and  still  upstanding,  vaunting  the  deeds  it 
will  do.  For  are  not  Tommy's  soldiers  all  bright  and 
new  ? 

Tommy's  leaden  soldiers  we, 
Glittering  with  efficiency. 
Not  a  button's  out  of  place, 
Tons  and  tons  of  golden  lace 
Wind  about  our  officers. 
Every  manly  bosom  stirs 
At  the  thought  of  killing  —  killing ! 
Tommy's  dearest  wish  fulfilling. 
We  are  gaudy,  savage,  strong, 
And  our  loins  so  ripe  we  long 
First  to  kill,  then  procreate, 
Doubling  so  the  laws  of  Fate. 
On  their  women  we  have  sworn 
To  graft  our  sons.     And  overborne 
They'll  rear  us  younger  soldiers,  so 


240  MEN,   WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS 

Shall  our  race  endure  and  grow, 
Waxing  greater  in  the  wombs 
Borrowed  of  them,  while  damp  tombs 
Rot  their  men.     O  Glorious  War  ! 
Goad  us  with  your  points,  Great  Star ! 

The  china  mandarin  on  the  bookcase  nods  slowly, 
forward  and  back  —  forward  and  back  —  and  the 
red  rose  writhes  and  wriggles,  thrusting  its  naming 
petals  under  and  over  one  another  like  tortured 
snakes. 

The  fire  strokes  them  with  its  dartles,  and  purrs  at 
them,  and  the  old  man  nods. 

Tommy  does  not  hear  the  song.  He  only  sees  the 
beautiful,  new,  gaily-coloured  lead  soldiers.  They 
belong  to  him,  and  he  is  very  proud  and  happy.  He 
shouts  his  orders  aloud,  and  gallops  his  cavalry  past 
the  door  to  the  wash-stand.  He  creeps  over  the  floor 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  241 

on  his  hands  and  knees  to  one  battalion  and  another, 
but  he  sees  only  the  bright  colours  of  his  soldiers  and 
the  beautiful  precision  of  their  gestures.  He  is  a 
lucky  boy  to  have  such  fine  lead  soldiers  to  enjoy. 

Tommy  catches  his  toe  in  the  leg  of  the  wash- 
stand,  and  jars  the  pitcher.  He  snatches  at  it  with 
his  hands,  but  it  is  too  late.  The  pitcher  falls,  and 
as  it  goes,  he  sees  the  white  water  flow  over  its  lip. 
It  slips  between  his  fingers  and  crashes  to  the  floor. 
But  it  is  not  water  which  oozes  to  the  door.  The 
stain  is  glutinous  and  dark,  a  spark  from  the  fire 
light  heads  it  to  red.  In  and  out,  between  the  fine, 
new  soldiers,  licking  over  the  carpet,  squirms  the 
stream  of  blood,  lapping  at  the  little  green  platforms, 
and  flapping  itself  against  the  painted  uniforms. 

The  nodding  mandarin  moves  his  head  slowly, 
forward  and  back.  The  rose  is  broken,  and  where  it 


242  MEN,   WOMEN  AND   GHOSTS 

fell  is  black  blood.  The  old  mandarin  leers  under  his 
purple  umbrella,  and  nods  —  forward  and  back, 
staring  into  the  air  with  blue-green  eyes.  Every 
time  his  head  comes  forward  a  rosebud  pushes  be 
tween  his  lips,  rushes  into  full  bloom,  and  drips  to  the 
ground  with  a  splashing  sound.  The  pool  of  black 
blood  grows  and  grows,  with  each  dropped  rose,  and 
spreads  out  to  join  the  stream  from  the  wash-stand. 
The  beautiful  army  of  lead  soldiers  steps  boldly  for 
ward,  but  the  little  green  platforms  are  covered  in 
the  rising  stream  of  blood. 

The  nursery  fire  burns  brightly  and  flings  fan- 
bursts  of  stars  up  the  chimney,  as  though  a  gala 
flamed  a  night  of  victorious  wars. 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  243 


THE  PAINTER  ON  SILK 

THERE  was  a  man 
Who  made  his  living 
By  painting  roses 
Upon  silk. 

He  sat  in  an  upper  chamber 
And  painted, 

And  the  noises  of  the  street 
Meant  nothing  to  him. 

When  he  heard  bugles,  and  fifes,  and  drums, 
He  thought  of  red,  and  yellow,  and  white  roses 
Bursting  in  the  sunshine, 
And  smiled  as  he  worked. 


244  MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS 

He  thought  only  of  roses, 

And  silk. 

When  he  could  get  no  more  silk 

He  stopped  painting 

And  only  thought 

Of  roses. 

The  day  the  conquerors 

Entered  the  city, 

The  old  man 

Lay  dying. 

He  heard  the  bugles  and  drums, 

And  wished  he  could  paint  the  roses 

Bursting  into  sound. 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS  245 


A  BALLAD   OF  FOOTMEN 

Now  what  in  the  name  of  the  sun  and  the  stars 
Is  the  meaning  of  this  most  unholy  of  wars  ? 

Do  men  find  life  so  full  of  humour  and  joy 

That  for  want  of  excitement  they  smash  up  the  toy  ? 

Fifteen  millions  of  soldiers  with  popguns  and  horses 
All  bent  upon  killing,  because  their  "of  courses" 

Are  not  quite  the  same.     All  these  men  by  the  ears, 
And  nine  nations  of  women  choking  with  tears. 

It  is  folly  to  think  that  the  will  of  a  king 

Can  force  men  to  make  ducks  and  drakes  of  a  thing 


246  MEN,   WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS 

They  value,  and  life  is,  at  least  one  supposes, 
Of  some  little  interest,  even  if  roses 

Have  not  grown  up  between  one  foot  and  the  other. 
What  a  marvel  bureaucracy  is,  which  can  smother 

Such  quite  elementary  feelings,  and  tag 
A  man  with  a  number,  and  set  him  to  wag 

His  legs  and  his  arms  at  the  word  of  command 
Or  the  blow  of  a  whistle  !     He's  certainly  damned, 

Fit  only  for  mince-meat,  if  a  little  gold  lace 
And  an  upturned  moustache  can  set  him  to  face 

Bullets,  and  bayonets,  and  death,  and  diseases, 
Because  some  one  he  calls  his  Emperor,  pleases. 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  247 

If  each  man  were  to  lay  down  his  weapon,  and  say, 
With  a  click  of  his  heels,  "I  wish  you  Good-day, " 

Now  what,  may  I  ask,  could  the  Emperor  do  ? 
A  king  and  his  minions  are  really  so  few. 

Angry  ?     Oh,  of  course,  a  most  furious  Emperor  ! 
But  the  men  are  so  many  they  need  not  mind  his 
temper,  or 

The  dire  results  which  could  not  be  inflicted. 
With  no  one  to  execute  sentence,  convicted 

Is  just  the  weak  wind  from  an  old,  broken  bellows. 
What   lackeys   men   are,   who   might   be   such   fine 
fellows ! 


248  MEN,   WOMEN  AND   GHOSTS 

To  be  killing  each  other,  unmercifully, 

At  an  order,  as  though  one  said,  "Bring  up  the  tea." 

Or  is  it  that  tasting  the  blood  on  their  jaws 
They  lap  at  it,  drunk  with  its  ferment,  and  laws 

So  patiently  builded,  are  nothing  to  drinking 
More    blood,    any    blood.     They    don't    notice    its 
stinking. 

I  don't  suppose  tigers  do,  fighting  cocks,  sparrows, 
And,  as  to  men  —  what  are  men,  when  their  marrows 

Are  running  with  blood  they  have  gulped ;  it  is  plain 
Such  excellent  sport  does  not  recollect  pain. 

Toll  the  bells  in  the  steeples  left  standing.     Half-mast 
The  flags  which  meant  order,  for  order  is  past. 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND   GHOSTS  249 

Take  the  dust  of  the  streets  and  sprinkle  your  head, 
The  civilization  we've  worked  for  is  dead. 

Squeeze  into  this  archway,  the  head  of  the  line 
Has  just  swung  round  the  corner  to  Die  Wacht  am 
Rhein. 


THE  OVERGROWN  PASTURE 


REAPING 


You  want  to  know  what's  the  matter  with  me,  do 

yer? 

My  !  ain't  men  blinder'n  moles  ? 
It  ain't  nothin'  new,  be  sure  o'  that. 
Why,  ef  you'd  had  eyes  you'd  ha'  seed 
Me  changin'  Under  your  very  nose, 
Each  day  a  little  diff'rent. 
But  you  never  see  nothin',  you  don't. 
Don't  touch  me,  Jake, 
Don't  you  dars't  to  touch  me, 
I  ain't  in  no  humour. 
That's  what's  come  over  me ; 
Jest  a  change  clear  through. 
You  lay  still,  an'  I'll  tell  yer, 
I've  had  it  on  my  mind  to  tell  yer 
Per  some  time. 


254  MEN,    WOMEN   AND   GHOSTS 

It's  a  strain  livin'  a  lie  from  mornin'  till  night, 

An'  I'm  goin'  to  put  an  end  to  it  right  now. 

An'  don't  make  any  mistake  about  one  thing, 
J  When  I  married  yer  I  loved  yer. 

Why,  your  voice  'ud  make 
i    Me  go  hot  and  cold  all  over, 
XAn'  your  kisses  most  stopped  my  heart  from  beatin'. 

Lord !     I  was  a  silly  fool. 

But  that's  the  way  'twas. 

Well,  I  married  yer 

An'  thought  Heav'n  was  comin' 

To  set  on  the  door-step. 

Heav'n  didn't  do  no  settin', 

Though  the  first  year  warn't  so  bad. 

The  baby's  fever  threw  you  off  some,  I  guess, 

An'  then  I  took  her  death  real  hard, 

An'  a  mopey  wife  kind  o'  disgusts  a  man. 

I  ain't  blamin'  yer  exactly. 

But  that's  how  'twas. 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND   GHOSTS  255 

Do  lay  quiet, 

I  knpjw_rmj5low,  but  it's  harder  to  say  'n  I  thought. 

There  come  a  time  when  I  got  to  be 

More  wife  agin  than  mother. 

The  mother  part  was  sort  of  a  waste 

When  we  didn't  have  no  other  child. 

But  you'd  got  used  ter  lots  o'  things. 

An'  you  was  all  took  up  with  the  farm. 

Many's  the  time  I've  laid  awake 

Watchin'  the  moon  go  clear  through  the  elm-tree, 

Out  o'  sight. 

I'd  foller  yer  around  like  a  dog, 

An'  set  in  the  chair  you'd  be'n  settin'  in, 

Jest  to  feel  its  arms  around  me, 

So  long's  I  didn't  have  yours. 

It  preyed  on  me,  I  guess, 

Longin'  and  longin' 

While  you  was  busy  all  day,  and  snorin*  all  night. 

Yes,  I  know  you're  wide  awake  now, 


256  MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS 

But  now  ain't  then, 

An'  I  guess  you'll  think  diff' rent 

When  I'm  done. 

Do  you  mind  the  day  you  went  to  Hadrock  ? 

I  didn't  want  to  stay  home  for  reasons, 

But  you  said  ^someone ^d  have  to  be  here 

'Cause  Elmer  was  comin'  to  see  t'  th'  telephone. 

An'  you  never  see  why  I  was  so  set  on  goin'  with  yer, 

Our  married  life  hadn't  be'n  any  great  shakes, 

Still  marriage  is  marriage,  an*   I   was   raised   God- 

fearin'. 

But,  Lord,  you  didn't  notice  nothin', 
An'  Elmer  hangin'  around  all  Winter ! 
'Twas  a  lovely  mornin'. 
The  apple-trees  was  jest  elegant 
With  their  blossoms  all  flared  out, 
An'  there  warn't  a  cloud  in  the  sky. 
You  went,  you  wouldn't  pay  no  'tention  to  what  I 

said, 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  257 

An'  I  heard  the  Ford  chuggin'  for  most  a  mile, 

The  air  was  so  still. 

Then  Elmer  come. 

It's  no  use  your  frettin',  Jake, 

I'll  tell  you  all  about  it. 

I  know  what  I'm  doin', 

An'  what's  worse,  I  know  what  I  done. 

Elmer  fixed  th'  telephone  in  about  two  minits, 

An'  he  didn't  seem  in  no  hurry  to  go, 

An'  I  don't  know  as  I  wanted  him  to  go  either, 

I  was  awful  mad  at  your  not  takin'  me  with  yer, 

An'  I  was  tired  o'  wishin'  and  wishin' 

An'  gittin'  no  comfort. 

I  guess  it  ain't  necessary  tSJkfiU  yer  all  the  things. 

He  stayed  to  dinner, 

An'  he  helped  me  do  the  dishes, 

An'  he  said  a  home  was  a  fine  thing, 

An'  I  said  dishes  warn't  a  home 

Nor  yet  the  room  they're  in. 


258  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

He  said  a  lot  o'  things, 

An'  I  fended  him  off  at  first, 

But  he  got  talkin'  all  around  me, 

Clost  up  to  the  things  I'd  be'n  thinkin', 

What's  the  use  o'  me  goin'  on,  Jake, 

You  know. 

He  got  all  he  wanted, 

XV         \ 

An'  I  give  it  to  him, 

An'  what's  more,  I'm  glad  ! 

I  ain't  dead,  anyway, 

An'  somebody  thinks  I'm  somethin'. 

Keep  away,  Jake, 

You  can  kill  me  to-morrer  if  you  want  to, 

But  I'm  goin'  to  have  my  say. 

Funny  thing !     Guess  I  ain't  made  to  hold  a  man. 

Elmer  ain't  be'n  here  for  mor'n  two  months. 

I  don't  want  to  pretend  nothin', 

Mebbe  if  he'd  be'n  lately 

I  shouldn't  have  told  yer. 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  259 

I'll  go  away  in  the  mornin',  o'  course. 
What  you  want  the  light  f er  ? 
I  don't  look  no  diff'rent. 
Ain't  the  moon  bright  enough 
To  look  at  a  woman  that's  deceived  yer  by  ? 
Don't,  Jake,  don't,  you  can't  love  me  now ! 
It  ain't  a  question_pf  forgiveness. 
Why !    I'd  be  thinkin'  o'  Elmer  ev^ry  minute ;  ^ 
t  ain't  decent. 
Oh,  my  God !    It  ain't  decent  any  more  either  way  ! 


\* 

4 


260  MEN,    WOMEN   AND   GHOSTS 


OFF  THE  TURNPIKE 

GOOD  ev'nin',  Mis'  Priest. 

I  jest  stepped  in  to  tell  you  Good-bye. 

Yes,  it's  all  over. 

All  my  things  is  packed 

An'  every  last  one  o'  them  boxes 

Is  on  Bradley's  team 

Bein'  hauled  over  to  th'  depot. 

No,  I  ain't  goin'  back  agin. 

I'm  stoppin'  over  to  French's  fer  to-night, 

And  goin'  down  first  train  in  th'  mornin'. 

Yes,  it  do  seem  kinder  queer 

Not  to  be  goin'  to  see  Cherry's  Orchard  no  more, 

But  Land  Sakes  !     When  a  change's  comin', 

Why,  I  al'ays  say  it  can't  come  too  quick. 

Now,  that's  real  kind  o'  you, 

Your  doughnuts  is  always  so  tasty. 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS  261 

Yes,  I'm  goin'  to  Chicago, 

To  my  niece, 

She's  married  to  a  fine  man,  hardware  business, 

An'  doin'  real  well,  she  tells  me. 

Lizzie's  be'n  at  me  to  go  out  ther  for  the  longest 

while. 

She  ain't  got  no  kith  nor  kin  to  Chicago,  you  know 
She's  rented  me  a  real  nice  little  flat, 
Same  house  as  hers, 
An'  I'm  goin'  to  try  that  city  livin'  folks  say's  so 

pleasant. 

Oh,  yes,  he  was  real  generous, 
Paid  me  a  sight  o'  money  fer  the  Orchard ; 
I  told  him  'twouldn't  yield  nothin'  but  stones, 
But  he  ain't  farmin'  it. 
Lor',  no,  Mis'  Priest, 

He's  jest  took  it  to  set  and  look  at  the  view. 
Mebbe  he  wouldn't  be  so  stuck  on  the  view 
Ef  he'd  seed  it  every  mornin'  and  night  for  forty  year 


262  MEN,    WOMEN   AND   GHOSTS 

Same's  as  I  have. 

I  dessay  it's  pretty  enough, 

But  it's  so  pressed  into  me 

I  c'ri  see't  with  my  eyes  shut. 

No.     I  ain't  cold,  Mis'  Priest, 

Don't  shut  th'  door. 

I'll  be  all  right  in  a  minit. 

But  I  ain't  a  mite  sorry  to  leave  that  view. 

Well,  mebbe  'tis  queer  to  feel  so, 

An*  mebbe  'taint. 

My !    But  that  tea's  revivin'. 

Old  things  ain't  always  pleasant  things,  Mis'  Priest. 

No,  no,  I  don't  cal'late  on  comin'  back, 

That's  why  I'd  ruther  be  to  Chicago, 

Boston's  too  near. 

It  ain't  cold,  Mis'  Priest, 

It's  jest  my  thoughts. 

I  ain't  sick,  only  — 

Mis'  Priest,  ef  you've  nothin'  ter  take  yer  time, 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS  263 

An'  have  a  mind  to  listen, 

Ther's  somethin'  I'd  like  ter  speak  about 

I  ain't  never  mentioned  it, 

But  I'd  like  to  tell  yer  'fore  I  go. 

Would  you  mind  lowerin'  them  shades, 

Fall  twilight's  awful  grey, 

An'  that  fire's  real  cosy  with  the  shades  drawed. 

Well,  I  guess  folks  about  here  think  I've  be'n  dret'ful 

onsociable. 

You  needn't  say  'taint  so,  'cause  I  know  diff'rent. 
An'  what's  more,  it's  true. 

Well,  the  reason  is  I've  be'n  scared  out  o'  my  life- 
Scared  ev'ry  minit  o'  th'  time,  fer  eight  year. 
Eight  mortal  year  'tis,  come  next  June. 
'Twas  on  the  eighteenth  o'  June, 
Six  months  after  I'd  buried  my  husband. 
That  somethin'  happened  ter  me. 
Mebbe  you'll  mind  that  afore  that 
I  was  a  cheery  body. 


264  MEN,    WOMEN   AND   GHOSTS 

Hiram  was  too, 

Al'ays  liked  to  ask  a  neighbor  in, 

An'  ev'n  when  he  died, 

Barrin'  low  sperrits,  I  warn't  averse  to  seein'  nobody. 

But  that  eighteenth  o'  June  changed  ev'^thin'. 

I  was  doin'  most  o'  th'  farmwork  myself, 

With  jest  a  hired  boy,  Clarence  King,  'twas, 

Comin'  in  fer  an  hour  or  two. 

Well,  that  eighteenth  o'  June 

I  was  goin'  round, 

Lockin'  up  and  seein'  to  things  'fore  I  went  to  bed. 

I  was  jest  steppin'  out  t'  th'  barn, 

Goin'  round  outside  'stead  o'  through  the  shed, 

'Cause  there  was  such  a  sight  o'  moonlight 

Somehow  or  another  I  thought  'twould  be  pretty  out 

doors. 

I  got  settled  for  pretty  things  that  night,  I  guess. 
I  ain't  stuck  on  'em  no  more. 
Well,  them  laylock  bushes  side  o'  th'  house 


MEN,   WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS  265 

Was  real  lovely. 

Glitt'rin'  and  shakin'  in  the  moonlight, 

An'  the  smell  o'  them  rose  right  up 

An'  most  took  my  breath  away. 

The  colour  o'  the  spikes  was  all  faded  out, 

They  never  keep  their  colour  when  the  moon's  on 

'em, 

But  the  smell  fair  'toxicated  me. 
I  was  al'ays  partial  to  a  sweet  scent, 
An'  I  went  close  up  t*  th'  bushes 
So's  to  put  my  face  right  into  a  flower. 
Mis'  Priest,  jest's  I  got  breathin'   in  that  laylock 

bloom 

I  saw,  layin'  right  at  my  feet, 
A  man's  hand ! 

It  was  as  white's  the  side  o'  th'  house, 
And  sparklin'  like  that  lum'nous  paint  they  put  on 

gate-posts. 
I  screamed  right  out, 


266  MEN,    WOMEN    AND    GHOSTS 

I  couldn't  help  it, 

An'  I  could  hear  my  scream 

Goin'  over  an'  over 

In  that  echo  be'ind  th'  barn. 

Hearin'  it  agin  an'  agin  like  that 

Scared  me  so,  I  dar'sn't  scream  any  more. 

I  jest  stood  ther, 

And  looked  at  that  hand. 

I  thought  the  echo'd  begin  to  hammer  like  my  heart, 

But  it  didn't. 

There  was  only  th'  wind, 

Sighin'  through  the  laylock  leaves, 

An'  slappin'  'em  up  agin  the  house. 

Well,  I  guess  I  looked  at  that  hand 

Most  ten  minits, 

An'  it  never  moved, 

Jest  lay  there  white  as  white. 

After  a  while  I  got  to  thinkin'  that  o'  course 

'Twas  some  drunken  tramp  over  from  Redfield. 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND   GHOSTS  267 

That  calmed  me  some, 

An'  I  commenced  to  think  I'd  better  git  him  out 

From  under  them  lay  locks. 

I  planned  to  drag  him  in  t'  th'  barn 

An'  lock  him  in  ther  till  Clarence  come  in  th'  mornin'. 

I  got  so  mad  thinkin'  o'  that  all-fired  brazen  tramp 

Asleep  in  my  laylocks, 

I  jest  stooped  down  and  grabbed  th'  hand  and  give 

it  an  awful  pull. 

Then  I  bumped  right  down  settin'  on  the  ground. 
Mis'  Priest,  ther  warn't  no  body  come  with  the  hand. 
No,  it  ain't  cold,  it's  jest  that  I  can't  abear  thinkin' 

of  it, 

Ev'n  now. 
I'll  take  a  sip  o'  tea. 
Thank  you,  Mis'  Priest,  that's  better. 
I'd  ruther  finish  now  I've  begun. 
Thank  you,  jest  the  same. 
I  dropped  the  hand's  ef  it'd  be'n  red  hot 


268  MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS 

'Stead  o'  ice  cold. 

Fer  a  minit  or  two  I  jest  laid  on  that  grass 

Pantin'. 

Then  I  up  and  run  to  them  laylocks 

An'  pulled  'em  every  which  way. 

True  es  I'm  settin'  here,  Mis'  Priest, 

Ther  warn't  nothin'  ther. 

I  peeked  an'  pryed  all  about  'em, 

But  ther  warn't  no  man  ther 

Neither  livin'  nor  dead. 

But  the  hand  was  ther  all  right, 

Upside  down,  the  way  I'd  dropped  it, 

And  glist'nin'  fit  to  dazzle  yer. 

I  don't  know  how  I  done  it, 

An'  I  don't  know  why  I  done  it, 

But  I  wanted  to  git  that  dret'ful  hand  out  o'  sight 

I  got  in  t'  th'  barn,  somehow, 

An'  felt  roun'  till  I  got  a  spade. 

I  couldn't  stop  fer  a  lantern, 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND   GHOSTS  209 

Besides,  the  moonlight  was  bright  enough  in  all  con 
science. 

Then  I  scooped  that  awful  thing  up  in  th'  spade. 
I  had  a  sight  o'  trouble  doin'  it. 
It  slid  off,  and  tipped  over,  and  I  couldn't  bear 
Ev'n  to  touch  it  with  my  foot  to  prop  it, 
But  I  done  it  somehow. 
Then  I  carried  it  off  be'ind  the  barn, 
Clost  to  an  old  apple-tree 
Where  you  couldn't  see  from  the  house, 
An'  I  buried  it, 
Good  an'  deep. 

I  don't  rec'lect  nothin'  more  o'  that  night. 

Clarence  woke  me  up  in  th'  mornin', 

Hollerin'  fer  me  to  come  down  and  set  th'  milk. 

When  he'd  gone, 

I  stole  roun'  to  the  apple-tree 

And  seed  the  earth  all  new  turned 


270  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

Where  I  left  it  in  my  hurry. 

I  did  a  heap  o'  gardenin' 

That  mornin'. 

I  couldn't  cut  no  big  sods 

Fear  Clarence  would  notice  and  ask  me  what  I  wanted 

'em  fer, 

So  I  got  teeny  bits  o'  turf  here  and  ther, 
And  no  one  couldn't  tell  ther'd  be'n  any  diggin' 
When  I  got  through. 

They  was  awful  days  after  that,  Mis'  Priest, 
I  used  ter  go  every  mornin'  and  poke  about  them 

bushes, 

An'  up  and  down  the  fence, 
Ter  find  the  body  that  hand  come  off  of. 
But  I  couldn't  never  find  nothin'. 
I'd  lay  awake  nights 

Hearin'  them  laylocks  blowin'  and  whiskin'. 
At  last  I  had  Clarence  cut  'em  down 
An'  make  a  big  bonfire  of  'em. 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  271 

I  told  him  the  smell  made  me  sick, 

An'  that  warn't  no  lie, 

I  can't  abear  the  smell  on  'em  now-' 

An'  no  wonder,  es  you  say. 

I  fretted  somethin'  awful  'bout  that  hand 

I  wondered,  could  it  be  Hiram's, 

But  folks  don't  rob  graveyards  hereabouts. 

Besides,  Hiram's  hands  warn't  that  awful,  starin' 

white. 

I  give  up  seem'  people, 
I  was  af eared  I'd  say  somethin'. 
You  know  what  folks  thought  o'  me 
Better'n  I  do,  I  dessay, 
But  mebbe   now   you'll   see   I   couldn't   do  nothin' 

diff'rent. 

But  I  stuck  it  out, 
I  warn't  goin'  to  be  downed 
By  no  loose  hand,  no  matter  how  it  come  ther 
But  that  ain't  the  worst,  Mis'  Priest, 


272  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

Not  by  a  long  ways. 

Two  year  ago,  Mr.  Densmore  made  me  an  offer  for 

Cherry's  Orchard. 
Well,  I'd  got  used  to  th'  thought  o'  bein'  sort  o' 

blighted, 

An'  I  warn't  scared  no  more. 
Lived  down  my  fear,  I  guess. 
I'd  kinder  got  used  to  th'  thought  o'  that  awful 

night, 

And  I  didn't  mope  much  about  it. 
Only  I  never  went  out  o'  doors  by  moonlight ; 
That  stuck. 

Well,  when  Mr.  Densmore's  offer  come, 
I  started  thinkin'  'bout  the  place 
An'  all  the  things  that  had  gone  on  ther. 
Thinks  I,  I  guess  I'll  go  and  see  where  I  put  the 

hand. 

I  was  foolhardy  with  the  long  time  that  had  gone  by. 
I  know'd  the  place  real  well, 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  273 

Fer  I'd  put  it  right  in  between  two  o'  the  apple  roots. 

I  don't  know  what  possessed  me,  Mis'  Priest, 

But  I  kinder  wanted  to  know 

That  the  hand  had  been  flesh  and  bone,  anyway. 

It  had  sorter  bothered  me,  thinkin'  I  might  ha'  im 
agined  it. 

I  took  a  mornin'  when  the  sun  was  real  pleasant  and 
warm ; 

I  guessed  I  wouldn't  jump  for  a  few  old  bones. 

But  I  did  jump,  somethin'  wicked. 
i 
Ther  warn't  no  bones  ! 

JTher  warn't  nothin' ! 

I  Not  ev'n  the  gold  ring  I'd  minded  bein'  on  the  little 

\  finger. 

/I  don't  know  ef  ther  ever  was  anythin'. 

I've  worried  myself  sick  over  it. 

I  be'n  diggiii'  and  diggin'  day  in  and  day  out 

Till  Clarence  ketched  me  at  it. 

Oh,  I  know'd  real  well  what  you  all  thought, 

*  T 


274  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

An'  I  ain't  sayin'  you're  not  right, 

But  I  ain't  goin'  to  end  in  no  county  'sylum 

If  I  c'n  help  it. 

The  shiv'rin'  fits  come  on  me  sudden  like. 

I  know  'em,  don't  you  trouble. 

I've  fretted  considerable  about  the  'sylum, 

I  guess  I  be'n  frettin'  all  the  time  I  ain't  be'n  diggin'. 

But  anyhow  I  can't  dig  to  Chicago,  can  I  ? 

Thank  you,  Mis'  Priest, 

I'm  better  now.     I  only  dropped  in  in  passin'. 

I'll  jest  be  steppin'  along  down  to  French's. 

No,  I  won't  be  seem'  nobody  in  the  mornin', 

It's  a  pretty  early  start. 

Don't  you  stand  ther,  Mis'  Priest, 

The  wind'll  blow  yer  lamp  out, 

An'  I  c'n  see  easy,  I  got  aholt  o'  the  gate  now. 

I  ain't  a  mite  tired,  thank  you. 

Good-night. 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND   GHOSTS  275 


THE   GROCERY 

" HULLO,  Alice!" 

"Hullo,  Leon!" 

"  Say,  Alice,  gi'  me  a  couple 

O'  them  two  for  five  cigars, 

Will  yer  ?  " 

"Where's  your  nickel?" 

"My !    Ain't  you  close ! 

Can't  trust  a  feller,  can  yer." 

"Trust  you!     Why 

What  you  owe  this  store 

Would  set  you  up  in  business. 

I  can't  think  why  Father  'lows  it." 

"Yer  Father's  a  sight  more  neighbourly 

Than  you  be.     That's  a  fact. 

Besides,  he  knows  I  got  a  vote." 

"A  vote !    Oh,  yes,  you  got  a  vote ! 


276  MEN,   WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS 

A  lot  o'  good  the  Senate'll  be  to  Father 

When  all  his  bank  account 

Has  run  away  in  credits. 

There's  your  cigars, 

If  you  can  relish  smokin' 

With  all  you  owe  us  standin'." 

"I  dunno  as  that  makes  'em  taste  any  diff'rent. 

You  ain't  fair  to  me,  Alice,  'deed  you  ain't. 

I  work  when  anythin's  doin'. 

I'll  get  a  carpenterin'  job  next  Summer  sure. 

Cleve  was  tellin'  me  to-day  he'd  take  me  on  come 

Spring." 

"Come  Spring,  and  this  December  ! 
I've  no  patience  with  you,  Leon, 
Shilly-shallyin'  the  way  you  do. 
Here,  lift  over  them  crates  o'  oranges 
I  wanter  fix  'em  in  the  winder." 
"It  riles  yer,  don't  it,  me  not  havin'  work. 
You  pepper  up  about  it  somethin'  good. 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS  277 

You  pick  an'  pick,  and  that  don't  help  a  mite. 

Say,  Alice,  do  come  in  out  o'  that  winder. 

Th'  oranges  c'n  wait, 

An'  I  don't  like  talkin'  to  yer  back." 

"Don't  you!     Well,  you'd  better  make  the  best  o' 

what  you  can  git. 

Maybe  you  won't  have  my  back  to  talk  to  soon. 
They  look  good  in  pyramids  with  the  'lectric  light  on 

'em, 

Don't  they  ? 

Now  hand  me  them  bananas 
An*  I'll  string  'em  right  acrost." 
"What  do  yer  mean 
'Bout  me  not  havih'  you  to  talk  to  ? 
Are  yer  springin'  somethin'  on  me  ?  '* 
"I  don't  know  'bout  springin' 
When  I'm  tellin'  you  right  out. 
I'm  goin'  away,  that's  all." 
"Where?    Why? 


278  MEN,   WOMEN  AND   GHOSTS 

What  yer  mean  —  goin'  away  ?  " 

"I've  took  a  place 

Down  to  Boston,  in  a  candy  store 

For  the  holidays." 

"Good  Land,  Alice, 

What  in  the  Heavens  fer !" 

"To  earn  some  money, 

And  to  git  away  from  here,  I  guess." 

"Ain't  yer  Father  got  enough? 

Don't  he  give  yer  proper  pocket-money?" 

"He'd  have  a  plenty,  if  you  folks  paid  him." 

"He's  rich  I  tell  yer. 

I  never  figured  he'd  be  close  with  you." 

"Oh,  he  ain't.    Not  close. 

That  ain't  why. 

But  I  must  git  away  from  here. 

I  must !    I  must ! " 

"You  got  a  lot  o'  reason  in  yer 

To-night. 


MEN,   WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  279 

How  long  d'  you  cal'late 

You '11  be  gone?" 

"Maybe  for  always." 

" What  ails  yer,  Alice? 

Talkin'  wild  like  that, 

Ain't  you  an'  me  goin'  to  be  married 

Some  day." 

"  Some  day !    Some  day ! 

I  guess  the  sun'll  never  rise  on  some  day." 

"So  that's  the  trouble. 

Same  old  story. 

'  Cause  I  ain't  got  the  cash  to  settle  right  now. 

You  know  I  love  yer, 

An*  I'll  marry  yer  as  soon 

As  I  c'n  raise  the  money." 

"You've  said  that  any  time  these  five  year, 

But  you  don't  do  no  thin'." 

"Wot  could  I  do? 

Ther  ain't  no  work  here  Winters. 


280  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

Not  fer  a  carpenter,  ther  ain't." 

"I  guess  you  warn't  born  a  carpenter. 

Ther's  ice-cuttin'  a  plenty." 

"I  got  a  dret'ful  tender  throat; 

Dr.  Smiles  he  told  me 

I  mustn't  resk  ice-cuttin'." 

"Why  haven't  you  gone  to  Boston, 

And  hunted  up  a  job  ?  " 

"Have  yer  forgot  the  time  I  went  expressin' 

In  the  American  office,  down  ther?" 

"And  come  back  two  weeks  later ! 

No,  I  ain't." 

"You  didn't  want  I  should  git  hurted, 

Did  yer? 

I'm  a  sight  too  light  fer  all  that  liftin'  work. 

My  back  was  commencin'  to  strain,  as  'twas. 

Ef  I  was  like  yer  brother  now, 

I'd  ha'  be'n  down  to  the  city  long  ago. 

But  I'm  too  clumsy  fer  a  dancer. 


MEN,   WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  281 

I  ain't  got  Arthur's  luck." 

"Do  you  call  it  luck  to  be  a  disgrace  to  your  folks, 

And  git  locked  up  in  jail !" 

"Oh,  come  now,  Alice, 

'  Disgrace '  is  a  mite  strong. 

Why,  the  jail  was  a  joke. 

Art's  all  right." 

"All  right! 

All  right  to  dance,  and  smirk,  and  lie 

For  a  livin', 

And  then  in  the  end 

Lead  a  silly  girl  to  give  you 

"What  warn't  hers  to  give 

By  pretendin'  you'd  marry  her  — 

And  she  a  pupil." 

"He'd  ha'  married  her  right  enough, 

Her  folks  was  millionaires." 

"Yes,  he'd  ha'  married  her ! 

Thank  God,  they  saved  her  that." 


282  MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS 

"Art's  a  fine  feller. 

I  wish  I  had  his  luck. 

Swellin'  round  in  Hart,  Schaffner  &  Marx  fancy  suits, 

And  eatin'  in  rest'rants. 

But  somebody's  got  to  stick  to  the  old  place, 

Else  Foxfield'd  have  to  shut  up  shop, 

Hey,  Alice?" 

"You  admire  him ! 

You  admire  Arthur ! 

You'd  be  like  him  only  you  can't  dance. 

Oh,  Shame  !     Shame  ! 

And  I've  been  like  that  silly  girl. 

Fooled  with  your  promises, 

And  I  give  you  all  I  had. 

I  knew  it,  oh,  I  knew  it, 

But  I  wanted  to  git  away  'fore  I  proved  it. 

You've  shamed  me  through  and  through. 

Why  couldn't  you  hold  your  tongue, 

And  spared  me  seein'  you 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS  283 

As  you  really  are." 

"What  the  Devil's  the  row  ? 

I  only  said  Art  was  lucky. 

What  you  spitfirin'  at  me  f er  ? 

Ferget  it,  Alice. 

We've  had  good  times,  ain't  we  ? 

I'll  see  Cleve  'bout  that  job  agin  to-morrer, 

And  we'll  be  married  'fore  hayin'  time." 

"It's  like  you  to  remind  me  o'  hayin'  time. 

I've  good  cause  to  love  it,  ain't  I  ? 

Many's  the  night  I've  hid  my  face  in  the  dark 

To  shut  out  thinkin' !" 

"Why,  that  ain't  nothin'. 

You  ain't  be'n  half  so  kind  to  me 

As  lots  o'  fellers'  girls. 

Gi'  me  a  kiss,  Dear, 

And  let's  make  up." 

"Makeup! 

You  poor  fooL 


284  MEN,    WOMEN  AND   GHOSTS 

Do  you  suppose  I  care  a  ten  cent  piece 

For  you  now. 

You've  killed  yourself  for  me. 

Done  it  out  o'  your  own  mouth. 

You've  took  away  my  home, 

I  hate  the  sight  o'  the  place. 

You're  all  over  it, 

Every  stick  an'  stone  means  you, 

An'  I  hate  'em  all." 

"Alice,  I  say, 

Don't  go  on  like  that. 

I  can't  marry  yer 

Boardin'  in  one  room, 

But  I'll  see  Cleve  to-morrer, 

I'll  make  him  - 

"Oh,  you  fool! 

You  terrible  fool!" 

Alice,  don't  go  yit, 
Wait  a  minit, 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS 

I'll  see  Cleve  - 

"You  terrible  fool!" 

"Alice,  don't  go. 

Alice ' '     (Door  slams) 


286  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 


NUMBER  3   ON  THE   DOCKET 

THE  lawyer,  are  you  ? 

Well !     I  ain't  got  nothin'  to  say. 

Nothin' !       . 

I  told  the  perlice  I  hadn't  nothin'. 

They  know'd  real  well  'twas  me. 

Ther  warn't  no  supposin', 

Ketchin'  me  in  the  woods  as  they  did, 

An'  me  in  my  house  dress. 

Folks  don't  walk  miles  an'  miles 

In  the  drifted  snow, 

With  no  hat  nor  wrap  on  'em 

Ef  everythin's  all  right,  I  guess. 

All  right?     Ha!     Ha!    Ha! 

Nothin'  warn't  right  with  me. 

Never  was. 

Oh,  Lord!    Why  did  I  do  it? 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  287 

Why  ain't  it  yesterday,  and  Ed  here  agin? 

Many's  the  time  I've  set  up  with  him  nights 

When  he  had  cramps,  or  rheumatizm,  or  somethin'. 

I  used  ter  nurse  him  same's  ef  he  was  a  baby. 

I  wouldn't  hurt  him,  I  love  him ! 

Don't  you  dare  to  say  I  killed  him.     'Twarn't  me ! 

Somethin'  got  aholt  o'  me.     I  couldn't  help  it. 

Oh,  what  shall  I  do !     What  shall  I  do ! 

Yes,  Sir. 

No,  Sir. 

I  beg  your  pardon,  I  —  I  — 

Oh,  I'm  a  wicked  woman  ! 

An'  I'm  desolate,  desolate  ! 

Why  warn't  I  struck  dead  or  paralyzed 

Afore  my  hands  done  it. 

Oh,  my  God,  what  shall  I  do ! 

No,  Sir,  ther  ain't  no  extenuatin'  circumstances, 

An'  I  don't  want  none. 

I  want  a  bolt  o'  lightnin* 


288  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

To  strike  me  dead  right  now ! 

» 

Oh,  I'll  tell  yer. 

But  it  won't  make  no  diff'rence. 

Nothin'  will. 

Yes,  I  killed  him. 

Why  do  yer  make  me  say  it  ? 

It's  cruel !     Cruel ! 

I  killed  him  because  o'  tli'  silence. 

The  long,  long  silence, 

That  watched  all  around  me, 

And  he  wouldn't  break  it. 

I  tried  to  make  him, 

Time  an'  agin, 

But  he  was  terrible  taciturn,  Ed  was. 

He  never  spoke  'cept  when  he  had  to, 

An'  then  he'd  only  say  "yes"  and  "no." 

You  can't  even  guess  what  that  silence  was. 

I'd  hear  it  whisperin'  in  my  ears, 

An'  I  got  frightened,  'twas  so  thick, 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

/An'  al'ays  comin'  back. 
Ef  Ed  would  ha'  talked  sometimes 
It  would  ha'  driven  it  away ; 
But  he  never  would. 
He  didn't  hear  it  same  as  I  did. 
You  see,  Sir, 
Our  farm  was  off'n  the  main  road, 

d  set  away  back  under  the  mountain ; 

d  the  village  was  seven  mile  off, 


Measurin'  after  you'd  got  out  o'  our  lane. 

We  didn't  have  no  hired  man, 

'Cept  in  hayin'  time ; 

An'  Dane's  place, 

That  was  the  nearest, 

Was  clear  way  'tether  side  the  mountain. 

They  used  Marley  post-office 

An'  ours  was  Ben  ton. 

Ther  was  a  cart-track  took  yer  to  Dane's  in  Summer, 

An'  it  warn't  above  two  mile  that  way, 

TJ 


290  MEN,   WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

But  it  warn't  never  broke  out  Winters. 
f  I  used  to  dread  the  Winters. 

Seem's   ef   I   couldn't   abear   to   see   the  golden-rod 
bloomin' ; 

Winter' d  come  so  quick  after  that. 

You  don't  know  what  snow's  like  when  yer  with  it 

Day  in  an'  day  out. 

Ed  would  be  out  all  day  loggin', 

An'  I  set  at  home  and  look  at  the  snow 
/   Layin'  over  everythin' ; 

1    It  'ud  dazzle  me  blind, 

/ 

Till  it  warn't  white  any  more,  but  black  as  ink. 

Then  the  quiet  'ud  commence  rushin'  past  my  ears 

Till  I  most  went  mad  listenin'  to  it. 

Many's  the  time  I've  dropped  a  pan  on  the  floor 

Jest  to  hear  it  clatter. 

I  was  most  frantic  when  dinner-time  come 

An'  Ed  was  back  from  the  woods. 

I'd  ha'  give  my  soul  to  hear  him  speak. 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  291 

But  he'd  never  say  a  word  till  I  asked  him 

Did  he  like  the  raised  biscuits  or  whatever, 

An'  then  sometimes  he'd  jest  nod  his  answer. 

Then  he'd  go  out  agin, 

An'  I'd  watch  him  from  the  kitchin  winder. 

It  seemed  the  woods  come  marchin'  out  to  meet  him 

An'  the  trees  'ud  press  round  him  an'  hustle  him. 

I  got  so  I  was  scared  o'  th'  trees. 

I  thought  they  come  nearer, 

Every  day  a  little  nearer, 

Closin'  up  round  the  house. 

I  never  went  in  t*  th'  woods  Winters, 

-— — _ 

Though  in  Summer  I  liked  'em  well  enough. 

It  warn't  so  bad  when  my  little  boy  was  with  us. 

He  used  to  go  sleddin'  and  skatin', 

An'  every  day  his  father  fetched  him  to  school  in  the 

pung 

An'  brought  him  back  agin. 
We  scraped  an'  scraped  fer  Neddy, 


292  MEN,    WOMEN   AND   GHOSTS 

We  wanted  him  to  have  a  education. 

We  sent  him  to  High  School, 

An'  then  he  went  up  to  Boston  to  Technology. 

He  was  a  minin'  engineer, 

An'  doin'  real  well, 

A  credit  to  his  bringin'  up. 

But  his  very  first  position  ther  was  an  explosion  in  the 

mine. 

And  I'm  glad !    I'm  glad ! 
He  ain't  here  to  see  me  now. 
Neddy!    Neddy! 
I'm  your  mother  still,  Neddy. 
Don't  turn  from  me  like  that. 
I  can't  abear  it.     I  can't !    I  can't ! 
What  did  you  say  ? 
Oh,  yes,  Sir. 
I'm  here. 
I'm  very  sorry, 
I  don't  know  what  I'm  sayin*. 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS  293 

No,  Sir, 

Not  till  after  Neddy  died. 
'Twas  the  next  Winter  the  silence  come, 
I  don't  remember  noticin'  it  afore. 
That  was  five  year  ago, 
An'  it's  been  gittin'  worse  an'  worse, 
f  I  asked  Ed  to  put  in  a  telephone. 

I  thought  ef  I  felt  the  whisperin'  comin'  on 

I  could  ring  up  some  o'  th'  folks. 

But  Ed  wouldn't  hear  of  it. 

He  said  wed  paid  so  much  for  Neddy 

We  couldn't  hardly  git  along  as  'twas. 

An'  he  never  understood  me  wantin'  to  talk. 

Well,  this  year  was  worse'n  all  the  others ; 

We  had  a  terrible  spell  o'  stormy  weather, 

An'  the  snow  lay  so  thick 

You  couldn't  see  the  fences  even. 

Out  o'  doors  was  as  flat  as  the  palm  o'  my  hand, 

Ther  warn't  a  hump  or  a  holler 


294  MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS 

Fer  as  you  could  see. 

It  was  so  quiet 

The  snappin'  o'  the  branches  back  in  the  wood-lot 

Sounded  like  pistol  shots. 

Ed  was  out  all  day 

Same  as  usual. 

An'  it  seemed  he  talked  less'n  ever. 

He  didn't  even  say  '  Good-mornm ','  once  or  twice, 

An'  jest  nodded  or  shook  his  head  when  I  asked  him 

things. 

On  Monday  he  said  he'd  got  to  go  over  to  Benton 
Fer  some  oats. 

I'd  oughter  ha'  gone  with  him, 
But  'twas  washin'  day 
An'  I  was  afeared  the  fine  weather'd  break, 
An'  I  couldn't  do  my  dryin'. 
All  my  life  I'd  done  my  work  punctual, 
An'  I  couldn't  fix  my  conscience 
To  go  junketin'  on  a  washin'-  day. 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND   GHOSTS  295 

I  can't  tell  you  what  that  day  was  to  me. 
It  dragged  an'  dragged, 

Fer  ther  warn't  no  Ed  ter  break  it  in  the  middle 
Fer  dinner. 

Every  time  I  stopped  stirrin'  the  water 
I  heerd  the  whisperm'  all  about  me. 
I  stopped  oftener'n  I  should 
To  see  ef  'twas  still  ther, 
An'  it  al'ays  was. 
An'  gittin'  louder 
v^It  seemed  ter  me. 

Once  I  threw  up  the  winder  to  feel  the  wind. 

That  seemed  most  alive  somehow. 

But  the  woods  looked  so  kind  of  menacin* 

I  closed  it  quick 

An'  started  to  mangle's  hard's  I  could, 

The  squeakin'  was  comfortin'. 

Well,  Ed  come  home  'bout  four. 

I  seen  him  down  the  road, 


296  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

An'  I  run  out  through  the  shed  inter  th'  barn 

To  meet  him  quicker. 

I  hollered  out, 'Hullo!' 

But  he  didn't  say  nothin', 

He  jest  drove  right  in 

An'  climbed  out  o'  th'  sleigh 

An'  commenced  unharnessin'. 

I  asked  him  a  heap  o'  questions ; 

Who  he'd  seed 

An'  what  he'd  done. 

Once  in  a  while  he'd  nod  or  shake, 

But  most  o'  th'  time  he  didn't  do  nothin'. 

'Twas  gittin'  dark  then, 

An'  I  was  in  a  state, 

With  the  loneliness 

An'  Ed  payin'  no  attention 

Like  somethin*  warn't  livin'. 

All  of  a  sudden  it  come, 

I  don't  know  what, 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS  297 

But  I  jest  couldn't  stand  no  more. 

It  didn't  seem  's  though  that  was  Ed, 

An'  it  didn't  seem  as  though  I  was  me. 

I  had  to  break  a  way  out  somehow, 

Somethin'  was  closin'  in 

An'  I  was  stiflinV 

Ed's  loggin'  axe  was  ther, 

An'  I  took  it. 

* 

(Oh,  my  God ! 

I  can't  see  nothin'  else  afore  me  all  the  time. 

I  run  out  inter  th'  woods, 

Seemed  as  ef  they  was  pullin'  me; 

An'  all  the  time  I  was  wadin'  through  the  snow 

I  seed  Ed  in  front  of  me 

Where  I'd  laid  him. 

n'  I  see  him  now. 

^    i  a,. i. 

There !     There ! 

What  you  holdin'  me  fer  ? 

I  want  ter  go  to  Ed, 


298  MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS 

He's  bleedin'. 
Stop  holdin'  me. 
I  got  to  go. 
I'm  comin',  Ed. 
I'll  be  ther  in  a  minit. 
Oh,  I'm  so  tired ! 
(Faints) 


CLOCKS  TICK  A  CENTURY 


NIGHTMARE:  A  TALE  FOR  AN 
AUTUMN  EVENING 

After  a  Print  by  George  Cruikshank 

IT  was  a  gusty  night, 
With  the  wind  booming,  and  swooping, 
Looping  round  corners, 
Sliding  over  the  cobble-stones, 
Whipping  and  veering, 
And  careering  over  the  roofs 
Like  a  thousand  clattering  horses. 
Mr.  Spruggins  had  been  dining  in  the  city, 
Mr.  Spruggins  was  none  too  steady  in  his  gait, 
And  the  wind  played  ball  with  Mr.  Spruggins 
And  laughed  as  it  whistled  past  him. 
It  rolled  him  along  the  street, 

With  his  little  feet  pit-a-patting  on  the  flags  of  the 
sidewalk, 


302  MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS 

And  his  muffler  and  his  coat-tails  blown  straight  out 

behind  him. 

It  bumped  him  against  area  railings, 
And  chuckled  in  his  ear  when  he  said  "Ouch !" 
Sometimes  it  lifted  him  clear  off  his  little  patting  feel 
And  bore  him  in  triumph  over  three  grey  flagstones 

and  a  quarter. 

The  moon  dodged  in  and  out  of  clouds,  winking. 
It  was  all  very  unpleasant  for  Mr.  Spruggins, 
And  when  the  wind  flung  him  hard  against  his  own 

front  door 
It  was  a  relief, 

Although  the  breath  was  quite  knocked  out  of  him. 
The  gas-lamp  in  front  of  the  house  flared  up, 
And  the  keyhole  was  as  big  as  a  barn  door ; 
The  gas-lamp  flickered  away  to  a  sputtering  blue 

star, 

And  the  keyhole  went  out  with  it. 
Such  a  stabbing,  and  jabbing, 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  303 

And  sticking,  and  picking, 

And  poking,  and  pushing,  and  prying 

With  that  key ; 

And  there  is  no  denying  that  Mr.  Spruggins  rapped 

out  an  oath  or  two, 
Rub-a-dub-dubbing  them  out  to  a  real  snare-drum 

roll. 

But  the  door  opened  at  last, 

And  Mr.  Spruggins  blew  through  it  into  his  own  hall 
And  slammed  the  door  to  so  hard 
That  the  knocker  banged  five  times  before  it  stopped. 
Mr.  Spruggins  struck  a  light  and  lit  a  candle, 
And  all  the  time  the  moon  winked  at  him  through  the 

window. 

"Why  couldn't  you  find  the  keyhole,  Spruggins?" 
Taunted  the  wind. 
"I  can  find  the  keyhole." 
And  the  wind,  thin  as  a  wire, 
Darted  in  and  seized  the  candle  flame 


304  MEN,   WOMEN  AND   GHOSTS 

And  knocked  it  over  to  one  side 

And  pummelled  it  down  —  down  —  down  — ! 

But  Mr.  Spruggins  held  the  candle  so  close  that  it 
singed  his  chin, 

And  ran  and  stumbled  up  the  stairs  in  a  surprisingly 
agile  manner, 

For  the  wind  through  the  keyhole  kept  saying, 
"Spruggins !  Spruggins  !"  behind  him. 

The  fire  in  his  bedroom  burned  brightly. 

The  room  with  its  crimson  bed  and  window  curtains 

Was  as  red  and  glowing  as  a  carbuncle. 

It  was  still  and  warm. 

There  was  no  wind  here,  for  the  windows  were  fas 
tened  ; 

And  no  moon, 

For  the  curtains  were  drawn. 

The  candle  flame  stood  up  like  a  pointed  pear 

In  a  wide  brass  dish. 

Mr.  Spruggins  sighed  with  content ; 


MEN,   WOMEN  AND   GHOSTS  305 

He  was  safe  at  home. 

The  fire  glowed  —  red  and  yellow  roses 

In  the  black  basket  of  the  grate  — 

And  the  bed  with  its  crimson  hangings 

Seemed  a  great  peony, 

Wide  open  and  placid. 

Mr.  Spruggins  slipped  off  his  top-coat  and  his  muffler 

He  slipped  off  his  bottle-green  coat 

And  his  flowered  waistcoat. 

He  put  on  a  flannel  dressing-gown, 

And  tied  a  peaked  night-cap  under  his  chin. 

He  wound  his  large  gold  watch 

And  placed  it  under  his  pillow. 

Then  he  tiptoed  over  to  the  window  and  pulled  back 

the  curtain. 

There  was  the  moon  dodging  in  and  out  of  the  clouds ; 
But  behind  him  was  his  quiet  candle. 
There  was  the  wind  whisking  along  the  street. 
The  window  rattled,  but  it  was  fastened. 
x 


306  MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS 

Did  the  wind  say,  "Spruggins"? 

All  Mr.  Spruggins  heard  was  "  S-s-s-s-s  —  " 

Dying  away  down  the  street. 

He  dropped  the  curtain  and  got  into  bed. 

Martha  had  been  in  the  last  thing  with  the  warming- 
pan; 

The  bed  was  warm, 

And  Mr.  Spruggins  sank  into  feathers, 

With  the  familiar  ticking  of  his  watch  just  under  his 
head. 

Mr.  Spruggins  dozed. 

He  had  forgotten  to  put  out  the  candle, 

But  it  did  not  make  much  difference  as  the  fire  was 
so  bright  .  .  . 

Too  bright ! 

The  red  and  yellow  roses  pricked  his  eyelids, 

They  scorched  him  back  to  consciousness. 

He  tried  to  shift  his  position ; 

He  could  not  move. 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  307 

Something  weighed  him  down, 

He  could  not  breathe. 

He  was  gasping, 

Pinned  down  and  suffocating. 

He  opened  his  eyes. 

The  curtains  of  the  window  were  flung  back, 

The  fire  and  the  candle  were  out, 

And  the  room  was  filled  with  green  moonlight. 

And  pressed  against  the  window-pane 

Was  a  wide,  round  face, 

Winking  —  winking  — 

Solemnly  dropping  one  eyelid  after  the  other. 

Tick  —  tock  —  went  the  watch  under  his  pillow. 

Wink  —  wink  —  went  the  face  at  the  window. 

It  was  not  the  fire  roses  which  had  pricked  him, 

It  was  the  winking  eyes. 

Mr.  Spruggins  tried  to  bounce  up ; 

He  could  not,  because  — 

His  heart  flapped  up  into  his  mouth 


308  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

And  fell  back  dead. 

On  his  chest  was  a  fat  pink  pig, 

On  the  pig  a  blackamoor 

With  a  ten  pound  weight  for  a  cap. 

His  mustachios  kept  curling  up  and  down  like  angry 

snakes, 

And  his  eyes  rolled  round  and  round, 
With  the  pupils  coming  into  sight,  and  disappearing, 
And  appearing  again  on  the  other  side. 
The  holsters  at  his  saddle-bow  were  two  port  bottles, 
And  a  curved  table-knife  hung  at  his  belt  for  a  scimitar, 
While  a  fork  and  a  keg  of  spirits  were  strapped  to  the 

saddle  behind. 
He  dug  his  spurs  into  the  pig, 

(Which  trampled  and  snorted, 
&nd  stamped  its  cloven  feet  deeper  into  Mr.  Sprug- 

gins. 

Then  the  green  light  on  the  floor  began  to  undulate. 
It  heaved  and  hollowed, 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS  309 

It  rose  like  a  tide, 

Sea-green, 

Full  of  claws  and  scales 

And  wriggles.. 

The  air  above  his  bed  began  to  move ; 

It  weighed  over  him 

In  a  mass  of  draggled  feathers. 

Not  one  lifted  to  stir  the  air. 

They  drooped  and  dripped 

With  a  smell  of  port  wine  and  brandy, 

Closing  down,  slowly, 

Trickling  drops  on  the  bed-quilt. 

Suddenly  the  window  fell  in  with  a  great  scatter  of 

glass, 

And  the  moon  burst  into  the  room, 
Sizzling  — '  *  S-s-s-s-s  —  Spruggins !     Spruggins ! ' ' 
It  rolled  toward  him, 
A  green  ball  of  flame, 
With  two  eyes  in  the  center, 


310  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

A  red  eye  and  a  yellow  eye, 

Dropping  their  lids  slowly, 

One  after  the  other. 

Mr.  Spruggins  tried  to  scream, 

But  the  blackamoor 

Leapt  off  his  pig 

With  a  cry, 

Drew  his  scimitar, 

And  plunged  it  into  Mr.  Spruggins's  mouth. 

Mr.  Spruggins  got  up  in  the  cold  dawn 

And  remade  the  fire. 

Then  he  crept  back  to  bed 

By  the  light  which  seeped  in  under  the  window  cur 
tains, 

And  lay  there,  shivering, 

While  the  bells  of  St.  George  the  Martyr  chimed  the 
quarter  after  seven. 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  'Ml 


THE  PAPER  WINDMILL 

THE  little  boy  pressed  his  face  against  the  window- 
pane  and  looked  out  at  the  bright  sunshiny  morning. 
The  cobble-stones  of  the  square  glistened  like  mica. 
In  the  trees,  a  breeze  danced  and  pranced,  and  shook 
drops  of  sunlight  like  falling  golden  coins  into  the 
brown  water  of  the  canal.  Down  stream  slowly 
drifted  a  long  string  of  galliots  piled  with  crimson 
cheeses.  The  little  boy  thought  they  looked  as  if 
they  were  roc's  eggs,  blocks  of  big  ruby  eggs.  He 
said,  "  Oh  ! "  with  delight,  and  pressed  against  the 
window  with  all  his  might. 

The  golden  cock  on  the  top  of  the  Stadhuis  gleamed. 
His  beak  was  open  like  a  pair  of  scissors  and  a  narrow 
piece  of  blue  sky  was  wedged  in  it.  "  Cock-a-doodle- 
do,"  cried  the  little  boy.  "  Can't  you  hear  me  through 


812  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

the  window,  Gold  Cocky  ?  Cock-a-doodle-do !  You 
should  crow  when  you  see  the  eggs  of  your  cousin,  the 
great  roc."  But  the  golden  cock  stood  stock  still,  with 
his  fine  tail  blowing  in  the  wind.  He  could  not  under 
stand  the  little  boy,  for  he  said  "  Cocorico"  when  he  said 
anything.  But  he  was  hung  in  the  air  to  swing,  not 
to  sing.  His  eyes  glittered  to  the  bright  West  wind, 
and  the  crimson  cheeses  drifted  away  down  the  canal. 

It  was  very  dull  there  in  the  big  room.  Outside 
in  the  square,  the  wind  was  playing  tag  with  some 
fallen  leaves.  A  man  passed,  with  a  dogcart  beside 
him  full  of  smart,  new  milkcans.  They  rattled  out  a 
gay  tune:  " Tiddity-tum-ti-ti.  Have  some  milk  for 
your  tea.  Cream  for  your  coffee  to  drink  to-night, 
thick,  and  smooth,  and  sweet,  and  white,"  and  the 
man's  sabots  beat  an  accompaniment :  "Plop !  trop ! 
milk  for  your  tea.  Plop!  trop!  drink  it  to-night." 
It  was  very  pleasant  out  there,  but  it  was  lonely  here 
in  the  big  room.  The  little  boy  gulped  at  a  tear. 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS  313 

It  was  queer  how  dull  all  his  toys  were.  They  were 
so  still.  Nothing  was  still  in  the  square.  If  he  took 
his  eyes  away  a  moment  it  had  changed.  The  milk 
man  had  disappeared  round  the  corner,  there  was 
only  an  old  woman  with  a  basket  of  green  stuff  on  her 
head,  picking  her  way  over  the  shiny  stones.  But  the 
wind  pulled  the  leaves  in  the  basket  this  way  and 
that,  and  displayed  them  to  beautiful  advantage. 
The  sun  patted  them  condescendingly  on  their  flat 
surfaces,  and  they  seemed  sprinkled  with  silver.  The 
little  boy  sighed  as  he  looked  at  his  disordered  toys 
on  the  floor.  They  were  motionless,  and  their  col 
ours  were  dull.  The  dark  wainscoting  absorbed  the 
sun.  There  was  none  left  for  toys. 

The  square  was  quite  empty  now.  Only  the  wind 
ran  round  and  round  it,  spinning.  Away  over  in 
the  corner  where  a  street  opened  into  the  square,  the 


314  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

wind  had  stopped.  Stopped  running,  that  is,  for  it 
never  stopped  spinning.  It  whirred,  and  whirled, 
and  gyrated,  and  turned.  It  burned  like  a  great 
coloured  sun.  It  hummed,  and  buzzed,  and  sparked, 
and  darted.  There  were  flashes  of  blue,  and  long 
smearing  lines  of  saffron,  and  quick  jabs  of  green. 
And  over  it  all  was  a  sheen  like  a  myriad  cut  dia 
monds.  Round  and  round  it  went,  the  huge  wind- 
wheel,  and  the  little  boy's  head  reeled  with  watching 
it.  The  whole  square  was  filled  with  its  rays,  blaz 
ing  and  leaping  round  after  one  another,  faster  and 
faster.  The  little  boy  could  not  speak,  he  could  only 
gaze,  staring  in  amaze. 

The  wind-wheel  was  coming  down  the  square. 
Nearer  and  nearer  it  came,  a  great  disk  of  spinning 
flame.  It  was  opposite  the  window  now,  and  the 
little  boy  could  see  it  plainly,  but  it  was  something 
more  than  the  wind  which  he  saw.  A  man  was  carry- 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  315 

ing  a  huge  fan-shaped  frame  on  his  shoulder,  and 
stuck  in  it  were  many  little  painted  paper  windmills, 
each  one  scurrying  round  in  the  breeze.  They  were 
bright  and  beautiful,  and  the  sight  was  one  to  please 
anybody,  and  how  much  more  a  little  boy  who  had 
only  stupid,  motionless  toys  to  enjoy. 

The  little  boy  clapped  his  hands,  and  his  eyes 
danced  and  whizzed,  for  the  circling  windmills  made 
him  dizzy.  Closer  and  closer  came  the  windmill 
man,  and  held  up  his  big  fan  to  the  little  boy  in  the 
window  of  the  Ambassador's  house.  Only  a  pane 
of  glass  between  the  boy  and  the  windmills.  They 
slid  round  before  his  eyes  in  rapidly  revolving  splen 
dour.  There  were  wheels  and  wheels  of  colours  — 
big,  little,  thick,  thin  —  all  one  clear,  perfect  spin. 
The  windmill  vendor  dipped  and  raised  them  again, 
and  the  little  boy's  face  was  glued  to  the  window- 
pane.  Oh  !  What  a  glorious,  wonderful  plaything  ! 


316  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

Rings  and  rings  of  windy  colour  always  moving  ! 
How  had  any  one  ever  preferred  those  other  toys 
which  never  stirred.  "Nursie,  come  quickly.  Look  ! 
I  want  a  windmill.  See  !  It  is  never  still.  You  will 
buy  me  one,  won't  you?  I  want  that  silver  one, 
with  the  big  ring  of  blue." 

So  a  servant  was  sent  to  buy  that  one :  silver, 
ringed  with  blue,  and  smartly  it  twirled  about  in  the 
servant's  hands  as  he  stood  a  moment  to  pay  the 
vendor.  Then  he  entered  the  house,  and  in  another 
minute  he  was  standing  in  the  nursery  door,  with 
some  crumpled  paper  on  the  end  of  a  stick  which  he 
held  out  to  the  little  boy.  "But  I  wanted  a  windmill 
which  went  round,"  cried  the  little  boy.  "That  is 
the  one  you  asked  for,  Master  Charles,"  Nursie  was 
a  bit  impatient,  she  had  mending  to  do.  "See,  it  is 
silver,  and  here  is  the  blue."  "But  it  is  only  a  blue 
streak,"  sobbed  the  little  boy.  "I  wanted  a  blue  ring, 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  317 

and  this  silver  doesn't  sparkle."  "Well,  Master 
Charles,  that  is  what  you  wanted,  now  run  away  and 
play  with  it,  for  I  am  very  busy." 

The  little  boy  hid  his  tears  against  the  friendly 
window-pane.  On  the  floor  lay  the  motionless, 
crumpled  bit  of  paper  on  the  end  of  its  stick.  But 
far  away  across  the  square  was  the  windmill  vendor, 
with  his  big  wheel  of  whirring  splendour.  It  spun 
round  in  a  blaze  like  a  whirling  rainbow,  and  the  sun 
gleamed  upon  it,  and  the  wind  whipped  it,  until  it 
seemed  a  maze  of  spattering  diamonds.  "  Cocorico!  " 
crowed  the  golden  cock  on  the  top  of  the  Stadhuis. 
"That  is  something  worth  crowing  for."  But  the 
little  boy  did  not  hear  him,  he  was  sobbing  over  the 
crumpled  bit  of  paper  on  the  floor. 


318  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 


THE  RED  LACQUER  MUSIC-STAND 

A  MUSIC-STAND  of  crimson  lacquer,  long  since  brought 
In    some    fast    clipper-ship    from    China,    quaintly 

wrought 

With  bossed  and  carven  flowers  and  fruits  in  blacken 
ing  gold, 

The  slender  shaft  all  twined  about  and  thickly  scrolled 
With  vine  leaves  and  young  twisted  tendrils,  whirl 
ing,  curling, 
Flinging  their  new  shoots  over  the  four  wings,  and 

swirling 
Out  on  the  three  wide  feet  in  golden  lumps  and 

streams ; 

Petals  and  apples  in  high  relief,  and  where  the  seams 
Are  worn  with  handling,  through  the  polished  crim 
son  sheen, 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS  319 

Long  streaks  of  black,  the  under  lacquer,  shine  out 

clean. 

Four  desks,  adjustable,  to  suit  the  heights  of  players 
Sitting  to  viols  or  standing  up  to  sing,  four  layers 
Of  music  to  serve  every  instrument,  are  there, 
And  on  the  apex  a  large  flat-topped  golden  pear. 
It  burns  in  red  and  yellow,  dusty,  smouldering  lights, 
When  the  sun  flares  the  old  barn-chamber  with  its 

flights 

And  skips  upon  the  crystal  knobs  of  dim  sideboards, 
Legless   and  mouldy,   and   hops,   glint  to  glint,  on 

hoards 
Of  scythes,  and  spades,  and  dinner-horns,  so  the  old 

tools 

Are  little  candles  throwing  brightness  round  in  pools. 
With  Oriental  splendour,  red  and  gold,  the  dust 
Covering  its  flames  like  smoke  and  thinning  as  a  gust 
Of  brighter   sunshine   makes  the  colours   leap   and 

range, 


320  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

The  strange  old  music-stand  seems  to  strike  out  and 
change ; 

To  stroke  and  tear  the  darkness  with  sharp  golden 
claws ; 

To  dart  a  forked,  vermilion  tongue  from  open  jaws ; 

To  puff  out  bitter  smoke  which  chokes  the  sun ;  and 
fade 

Back  to  a  still,  faint  outline  obliterate  in  shade. 

Creeping  up  the  ladder  into  the  loft,  the  Boy 

Stands  watching,  very  still,  prickly  and  hot  with  joy. 

He  sees  the  dusty  sun-mote  slit  by  streaks  of  red, 

He  sees  it  split  and  stream,  and  all  about  his  head 

Spikes  and  spears  of  gold  are  licking,  pricking,  flick 
ing, 

Scratching  against  the  walls  and  furniture,  and  nick 
ing 

The  darkness  into  sparks,  chipping  away  the  gloom. 

The  Boy's  nose  smarts  with  the  pungence  in  the 
room. 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS  321 

The  wind  pushes  an  elm  branch  from  before  the  door 
And  the  sun  widens  out  all  along  the  floor, 
Filling    the    barn-chamber    with   white,    straightfor 
ward  light, 

So  not  one  blurred  outline  can  tease  the  mind  to 
fright. 

"  0  All  ye  Works  of  the  Lord,  Bless  ye  the  Lord; 
Praise  Him,  and  Magnify  Him  for  ever. 

0  let  the  Earth  Bless  the  Lord;  Yea,  let  it  Praise 
Him,  and  Magnify  Him  for  ever. 

0  ye  Mountains  and  Hills,  Bless  ye  the  Lord;  Praise 
Him,  and  Magnify  Him  for  ever. 

0  All  ye  Green  Things  upon  the  Earth,  Bless  ye  the 
Lord;  Praise  Him,  and  Magnify  Him  for  ever." 

The  Boy  will  praise  his  God  on  an  altar  builded  fair, 
Will  heap  it  with  the  Works  of  the  Lord.     In  the 
morning  air, 
Y 


322  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

Spices  shall  burn  on  it,  and  by  their  pale  smoke  curled, 
Like  shoots  of  all  the  Green  Things,  the  God  of  this 

bright  World 

Shall  see  the  Boy's  desire  to  pay  his  debt  of  praise. 
The  Boy  turns  round  about,  seeking  with  careful  gaze 
An  altar  meet  and  worthy,  but  each  table  and  chair 
Has  some  defect,  each  piece  is  needing  some  repair 
To  perfect  it ;  the  chairs  have  broken  legs  and  backs, 
The  tables  are  uneven,  and  every  highboy  lacks 
A  handle  or  a  drawer,  the  desks  are  bruised  and  worn, 
And  even  a  wide  sofa  has  its  cane  seat  torn. 
Only  in  the  gloom  far  in  the  corner  there 
The  lacquer  music-stand  is  elegant  and  rare, 
Clear  and  slim  of  line,  with  its  four  wings  outspread, 
The  sound  of  old  quartets,  a  tenuous,  faint  thread, 
Hanging  and  floating  over  it,  it  stands  supreme  — 
Black,  and  gold,  and  crimson,  in  one  twisted  scheme ! 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  323 

A  candle  on  the  bookcase  feels  a  draught  and  wavers, 
Stippling  the  white-washed  walls  with  dancing  shades 

and  quavers. 

A  bed-post,  grown  colossal,  jigs  about  the  ceiling, 
And  shadows,  strangely  altered,  stain  the  walls,  reveal 
ing 

Eagles,  and  rabbits,  and  weird  faces  pulled  awry, 
And  hands  which  fetch  and  carry  things  incessantly. 
Under  the  Eastern  window,  where  the  morning  sun 
Must  touch  it,  stands  the  music-stand,  and  on  each  one 
Of  its  broad  platforms  is  a  pyramid  of  stones, 
And  metals,  and  dried  flowers,  and  pine  and  hemlock 

cones, 

An  oriole's  nest  with  the  four  eggs  neatly  blown, 
The  rattle  of  a  rattlesnake,  and  three  large  brown 
Butternuts  uncracked,  six  butterflies  impaled 
With  a  green  luna  moth,  a  snake-skin  freshly  scaled, 
Some  sunflower  seeds,  wampum,  and  a  bloody-tooth 
shell, 


324  MEN,   WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS 

A  blue  jay  feather,  all  together  piled  pell-mell 
The  stand  will  hold  no  more.     The  Boy  with  hum 
ming  head 

Looks  once  again,  blows  out  the  light,  and  creeps  to 
bed. 

The  Boy  keeps  solemn  vigil,  while  outside  the  wind 
Blows  gustily  and  clear,  and  slaps  against  the  blind. 
He  hardly  tries  to  sleep,  so  sharp  his  ecstasy 
It  burns  his  soul  to  emptiness,  and  sets  it  free 
For  adoration  only,  for  worship.     Dedicate, 
His  unsheathed  soul  is  naked  in  its  novitiate. 
The  hours  strike  below  from  the  clock  on  the  stair. 
The  Boy  is  a  white  flame  suspiring  in  prayer. 
Morning  will  bring  the  sun,  the  Golden  Eye  of  Him 
Whose  splendour  must  be  veiled  by  starry  cherubim, 
Whose  Feet  shimmer  like  crystal  in  the  streets  of 

Heaven. 
Like  an  open  rose  the  sun  will  stand  up  even, 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  325 

Fronting  the    window-sill,  and  when  the  casement 

glows 
Rose-red  with  the  new-blown  morning,  then  the  fire 

which  flows 

From  the  sun  will  fall  upon  the  altar  and  ignite 
The  spices,  and  his  sacrifice  will  burn  in  perfumed 

light. 

Over  the  music-stand  the  ghosts  of  sounds  will  swim, 
Viols  d'amore  and  hautbois  accorded  to  a  hymn. 
The  Boy  will  see  the  faintest  breath  of  angels'  wings 
Fanning  the  smoke,  and  voices  will  flower  through 

the  strings. 

He  dares  no  farther  vision,  and  with  scalding  eyes 
Waits  upon  the  daylight  and  his  great  emprise. 

The  cold,  grey  light  of  dawn  was  whitening  the  wall 
When  the  Boy,  fine-drawn  by  sleeplessness,  started 

his  ritual. 
He  washed,  all  shivering  and  pointed  like  a  flame. 


326  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

He  threw  the  shutters  open,  and  in  the  window-frame 
The  morning  glimmered  like  a  tarnished  Venice  glass. 
He  took  his  Chinese  pastilles  and  put  them  in  a  mass 
Upon  the  mantelpiece  till  he  could  seek  a  plate 
Worthy  to  hold  them  burning.     Alas !     He  had  been 

late 

In  thinking  of  this  need,  and  now  he  could  not  find 
Platter  or  saucer  rare  enough  to  ease  his  mind. 
The  house  was  not  astir,  and  he  dared  not  go  down 
Into  the  barn-chamber,  lest  some   door  should  be 

blown 

And  slam  before  the  draught  he  made  as  he  went  out. 
The  light  was  growing  yellower,  and  still  he  looked 

about. 

A  flash  of  almost  crimson  from  the  gilded  pear 
Upon  the  music-stand,  startled  him  waiting  there. 
The  sun  would  rise  and  he  would  meet  it  unprepared, 
Labelled  a  fool  in  having  missed  what  he  had  dared. 
He  ran  across  the  room,  took  his  pastilles  and  laid 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND   GHOSTS  327 

Them  on  the  flat-topped  pear,  most  carefully  dis 
played 

To  light  with  ease,  then  stood  a  little  to  one  side, 
Focussed  a  burning-glass  and  painstakingly  tried 
To  hold  it  angled  so  the  bunched  and  prismed  rays 
Should  leap  upon  each  other  and  spring  into  a  blaze. 
Sharp  as  a  wheeling  edge  of  disked,  carnation  flame, 
Gem-hard  and  cutting  upward,  slowly  the  round  sun 

came. 
The    arrowed    fire    caught    the    burning-glass    and 

glanced, 

Split  to  a  multitude  of  pointed  spears,  and  lanced, 
A  deeper,  hotter  flame,  it  took  the  incense  pile 
Which  welcomed  it  and  broke  into  a  little  smile 
Of  yellow  flamelets,  creeping,  crackling,  thrusting  up, 
A  golden,  red-slashed  lily  in  a  lacquer  cup. 

"0  ye  Fire  and  Heat,  Bless  ye  the  Lord;  Praise 
Him,  and  Magnify  Him  for  ever. 


328  MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS 

0  ye  Winter  and  Summer,  Bless  ye  the  Lord;  Praise 
Him,  and  Magnify  Him  for  ever. 

0  ye  Nights  and  Days,  Bless  ye  the  Lord;  Praise 
Him,  and  Magnify  Him  for  ever. 

0  ye  Lightnings  and  Clouds,  Bless  ye  the  Lord; 
Praise  Him,  and  Magnify  Him  for  ever." 

A  moment  so  it  hung,  wide-curved,  bright-petalled, 

seeming 
A  chalice  foamed  with  sunrise.     The  Boy  woke  from 

his  dreaming. 

A  spike  of  flame  had  caught  the  card  of  butterflies, 
The  oriole's  nest  took  fire,  soon  all  four  galleries 
Where  he  had  spread  his  treasures  were  become  one 

tongue 

Of  gleaming,  brutal  fire.     The  Boy  instantly  swung 
His  pitcher  off  the  wash-stand  and  turned  it  upside 

down. 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS  329 

The  flames  drooped  back  and  sizzled,  and  all  his  senses 

grown 

Acute  by  fear,  the  Boy  grabbed  the  quilt  from  his  bed 
And  flung  it  over  all,  and  then  with  aching  head 
He  watched  the  early  sunshine  glint  on  the  remains 
Of  his  holy  offering.     The  lacquer  stand  had  stains 
Ugly  and  charred  all  over,  and  where  the  golden  pear 
Had  been,  a  deep,  black  hole  gaped  miserably.     His 

dear 
Treasures  were  puffs  of  ashes;   only  the  stones  were 

there, 
Winking  in  the  brightness. 

The  clock  upon  the  stair 

Struck  five,  and  in  the  kitchen  someone  shook  a  grate. 
The  Boy  began  to  dress,  for  it  was  getting  late. 


330  MEN,    WOMEN   AND   GHOSTS 


SPRING  DAY 

BATH 

THE  day  is  fresh-washed  and  fair,  and  there  is  a 
smell  of  tulips  and  narcissus  in  the  air. 

The  sunshine  pours  in  at  the  bath-room  window 
and  bores  through  the  water  in  the  bath-tub  in  lathes 
and  planes  of  greenish-white.  It  cleaves  the  water 
into  flaws  like  a  jewel,  and  cracks  it  to  bright  light. 

Little  spots  of  sunshine  lie  on  the  surface  of  the 
water  and  dance,  dance,  and  their  reflections  wobble 
deliciously  over  the  ceiling ;  a  stir  of  my  finger  sets 
them  whirring,  reeling.  I  move  a  foot,  and  the  planes 
of  light  in  the  water  jar.  I  lie  back  and  laugh,  and 
let  the  green-white  water,  the  sun-flawed  beryl  water, 
flow  over  me.  The  day  is  almost  too  bright  to  bear, 
the  green  water  covers  me  from  the  too  bright  day. 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS  331 

I  will  lie  here  awhile  and  play  with  the  water  and  the 
sun  spots. 

The  sky  is  blue  and  high.  A  crow  flaps  by  the 
window,  and  there  is  a  whiff  of  tulips  and  narcissus 
in  the  air. 

BREAKFAST  TABLE 

IN  the  fresh-washed  sunlight,  the  breakfast  table 
is  decked  and  white.  It  offers  itself  in  flat  surrender, 
tendering  tastes,  and  smells,  and  colours,  and  metals, 
and  grains,  and  the  white  cloth  falls  over  its  side, 
draped  and  wide.  Wheels  of  white  glitter  in  the 
silver  coffee-pot,  hot  and  spinning  like  Catherine- 
wheels,  they  whirl,  and  twirl  —  and  my  eyes  begin 
to  smart,  the  little  white,  dazzling  wheels  prick  them 
like  darts.  Placid  and  peaceful,  the  rolls  of  bread 
spread  themselves  in  the  sun  to  bask.  A  stack  of 
butter-pats,  pyramidal,  shout  orange  through  the 
white,  scream,  flutter,  call:  "Yellow!  Yellow! 
Yellow!"  Coffee  steam  rises  in  a  stream,  clouds  the 


332  MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS 

silver  tea-service  with  mist,  and  twists  up  into  the 
sunlight,  revolved,  involuted,  suspiring  higher  and 
higher,  fluting  in  a  thin  spiral  up  the  high  blue  sky. 
A  crow  flies  by  and  croaks  at  the  coffee  steam.  The 
day  is  new  and  fair  with  good  smells  in  the  air. 

WALK 

OVER  the  street  the  white  clouds  meet,  and  sheer 
away  without  touching. 

On  the  sidewalks,  boys  are  playing  marbles.  Glass 
marbles,  with  amber  and  blue  hearts,  roll  together 
and  part  with  a  sweet  clashing  noise.  The  boys 
strike  them  with  black  and  red  striped  agates.  The 
glass  marbles  spit  crimson  when  they  are  hit,  and  slip 
into  the  gutters  under  rushing  brown  water.  I 
smell  tulips  and  narcissus  in  the  air,  but  there  are  no 
flowers  anywhere,  only  white  dust  whipping  up  the 
street,  and  a  girl  with  a  gay  Spring  hat  and  blowing 
skirts.  The  dust  and  the  wind  flirt  at  her  ankles 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  333 

and  her  neat,  high-heeled  patent  leather  shoes.  Tap, 
tap,  the  little  heels  pat  the  pavement,  and  the  wind 
rustles  among  the  flowers  on  her  hat. 

A  water-cart  crawls  slowly  on  the  other  side  of  the 
way.  It  is  green  and  gay  with  new  paint,  and  rumbles 
contentedly,  sprinkling  clear  water  over  the  white 
dust.  Clear  zigzagging  water,  which  smells  of  tulips 
and  narcissus. 

The  thickening  branches  make  a  pink  grisaille 
against  the  blue  sky. 

Whoop !  The  clouds  go  dashing  at  each  other  and 
sheer  away  just  in  time.  Whoop !  And  a  man's  hat 
careers  down  the  street  in  front  of  the  white  dust, 
leaps  into  the  branches  of  a  tree,  veers  away  and 
trundles  ahead  of  the  wind,  jarring  the  sunlight  into 
spokes  of  rose-colour  and  green. 

A  motor-car  cuts  a  swathe  through  the  bright  air, 
sharp-beaked,  irresistible,  shouting  to  the  wind  to 
make  way.  A  glare  of  dust  and  sunshine  tosses 


334  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

together  behind  it,  and  settles  down.  The  sky  is 
quiet  and  high,  and  the  morning  is  fair  with  fresh- 
washed  air. 

MIDDAY  AND  AFTERNOON 

SWIRL  of  crowded  streets.  Shock  and  recoil  of 
traffic.  The  stock-still  brick  facade  of  an  old  church, 
against  which  the  waves  of  people  lurch  and  with 
draw.  Flare  of  sunshine  down  side-streets.  Eddies 
of  light  in  the  windows  of  chemists'  shops,  with  their 
blue,  gold,  purple  jars,  darting  colours  far  into  the 
crowd.  Loud  bangs  and  tremors,  murmurings  out  of 
high  windows,  whirring  of  machine  belts,  blurring  of 
horses  and  motors.  A  quick  spin  and  shudder  of 
brakes  on  an  electric  car,  and  the  jar  of  a  church- 
bell  knocking  against  the  metal  blue  of  the  sky.  I 
am  a  piece  of  the  town,  a  bit  of  blown  dust,  thrust 
along  with  the  crowd.  Proud  to  feel  the  pavement 
under  me,  reeling  with  feet.  Feet  tripping,  skipping, 
lagging,  dragging,  plodding  doggedly,  or  springing  up 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  335 

and  advancing  on  firm  elastic  insteps.  A  boy  is 
selling  papers,  I  smell  them  clean  and  new  from  the 
press.  They  are  fresh  like  the  air,  and  pungent  as 
tulips  and  narcissus. 

The  blue  sky  pales  to  lemon,  and  great  tongues  of 
gold  blind  the  shop-windows,  putting  out  their  con 
tents  in  a  flood  of  flame. 

NIGHT  AND  SLEEP 

THE  day  takes  her  ease  in  slippered  yellow.  Elec 
tric  signs  gleam  out  along  the  shop  fronts,  following 
each  other.  They  grow,  and  grow,  and  blow  into 
patterns  of  fire-flowers  as  the  sky  fades.  Trades 
scream  in  spots  of  light  at  the  unruffled  night. 
Twinkle,  jab,  snap,  that  means  a  new  play;  and 
over  the  way  :  plop,  drop,  quiver,  is  the  sidelong  sliver 
of  a  watchmaker's  sign  with  its  length  on  another 
street.  A  gigantic  mug  of  beer  effervesces  to  the 
atmosphere  over  a  tall  building,  but  the  sky  is  high 
and  has  her  own  stars,  why  should  she  heed  ours  ? 


336  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

I  leave  the  city  with  speed.  Wheels  whirl  to  take 
me  back  to  my  trees  and  my  quietness.  The  breeze 
which  blows  with  me  is  fresh-washed  and  clean,  it  has 
come  but  recently  from  the  high  sky.  There  are  no 
flowers  in  bloom  yet,  but  the  earth  of  my  garden 
smells  of  tulips  and  narcissus. 

My  room  is  tranquil  and  friendly.  Out  of  the 
window  I  can  see  the  distant  city,  a  band  of  twink 
ling  gems,  little  flower -heads  with  no  stems.  I  can 
not  see  the  beer-glass,  nor  the  letters  of  the  restau 
rants  and  shops  I  passed,  now  the  signs  blur  and  all 
together  make  the  city,  glowing  on  a  night  of  fine 
weather,  like  a  garden  stirring  and  blowing  for  the 
Spring. 

The  night  is  fresh-washed  and  fair  and  there  is  a 

whiff  of  flowers  in  the  air. 

• 

Wrap  me  close,  sheets  of  lavender.  Pour  your  blue 
and  purple  dreams  into  my  ears.  The  breeze  whis 
pers  at  the  shutters  and  mutters  queer  tales  of  old 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  337 

days,  and  cobbled  streets,  and  youths  leaping  their 
horses  down  marble  stairways.  Pale  blue  lavender, 
you  are  the  colour  of  the  sky  when  it  is  fresh-washed 
and  fair  ...  I  smell  the  stars  .  .  .  they  are  like 
tulips  and  narcissus  ...  I  smell  them  in  the  air. 


338  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

THE   DINNER-PARTY 

FISH 

"So  .  .  ."they  said, 
With  their  wine-glasses  delicately  poised, 
Mocking  at  the  thing  they  cannot  understand. 
"So  .  .  ."  they  said  again, 
Amused  and  insolent. 
The  silver  on  the  table  glittered, 
And  the  red  wine  in  the  glasses 
Seemed  the  blood  I  had  wasted 
In  a  foolish  cause. 

GAME 

THE  gentleman  with  the  grey-and-black  whiskers 
Sneered  languidly  over  his  quail. 
Then  my  heart  flew  up  and  laboured, 
And  I  burst  from  my  own  holding 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND   GHOSTS  339 

And  hurled  myself  forward. 

With  straight  blows  I  beat  upon  him, 

Furiously,  with  red-hot  anger,  I  thrust  against  him. 

But  my  weapon  slithered  over  his  polished  surface, 

And  I  recoiled  upon  myself, 

Panting. 

DRAWING-ROOM 

IN  a  dress  all  softness  and  half-tones, 
Indolent  and  half-reclined, 
She  lay  upon  a  couch, 
With  the  firelight  reflected  in  her  jewels. 
But  her  eyes  had  no  reflection, 
They  swam  in  a  grey  smoke, 
The  smoke  of  smouldering  ashes, 
The  smoke  of  her  cindered  heart. 

COFFEE 

THEY  sat  in  a  circle  with  their  coffee-cups. 
One  dropped  in  a  lump  of  sugar, 


340  MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS 

One  stirred  with  a  spoon. 

I  saw  them  as  a  circle  of  ghosts 

Sipping  blackness  out  of  beautiful  china, 

And  mildly  protesting  against  my  coarseness 

In  being  alive. 

TALK 

THEY  took  dead  men's  souls 
And  pinned  them  on  their  breasts  for  ornament ; 
Their  cuff-links  and  tiaras 
Were  gems  dug  from  a  grave ; 

They  were  ghouls  battening  on  exhumed  thoughts ; 
And  I  took  a  green  liqueur  from  a  servant 
So  that  he  might  come  near  me 
And  give  me  the  comfort  of  a  living  thing. 

ELEVEN  O'CLOCK 

THE  front  door  was  hard  and  heavy, 
It  shut  behind  me  on  the  house  of  ghosts. 
I  flattened  my  feet  on  the  pavement 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS  341 

To  feel  it  solid  under  me ; 

I  ran  my  hand  along  the  railings 

And  shook  them, 

And  pressed  their  pointed  bars 

Into  my  palms. 

The  hurt  of  it  reassured  me, 

And  I  did  it  again  and  again 

Until  they  were  bruised. 

When  I  woke  in  the  night 

I  laughed  to  find  them  aching, 

For  only  living  flesh  can  suffer. 


342  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 


STRAVINSKY'S  THREE   PIECES 

"GROTESQUES," 
FOR  STRING  QUARTET 

FIRST  MOVEMENT 
THIN-VOICED,  nasal  pipes 
Drawing  sound  out  and  out 
Until  it  is  a  screeching  thread, 
Sharp  and  cutting,  sharp  and  cutting, 
It  hurts. 
Whee-e-e ! 

Bump !    Bump !    Tong-ti-burnp ! 
There  are  drums  here, 
Banging, 

And  wooden  shoes  beating  the  round,  grey  stones 
Of  the  market-place. 
Whee-e-e ! 
Sabots  slapping  the  worn,  old  stones, 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND   GHOSTS  343 

And  a  shaking  and  cracking  of  dancing  bones ; 

Clumsy  and  hard  they  are, 

And  uneven, 

Losing  half  a  beat 

Because  the  stones  are  slippery. 

Bump-e-ty-tong !    Whee-e-e !    Tong ! 

The  thin  Spring  leaves 

Shake  to  the  banging  of  shoes. 

Shoes  beat,  slap, 

Shuffle,  rap, 

And  the  nasal  pipes  squeal  with  their  pigs'  voices, 

Little  pigs'  voices 

Weaving  among  the  dancers, 

A  fine  white  thread 

Linking  up  the  dancers. 

Bang !    Bump !    Tong ! 

Petticoats, 

Stockings, 

Sabots, 


344  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

Delirium  flapping  its  thigh-bones ; 

Red,  blue,  yellow, 

Drunkenness  steaming  in  colours ; 

Red,  yellow,  blue, 

Colours  and  flesh  weaving  together, 

In  and  out,  with  the  dance, 

Coarse  stuffs  and  hot  flesh  weaving  together. 

Pigs'  cries  white  and  tenuous, 

White  and  painful, 

White  and  - 

Bump ! 

Tong! 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS  345 

SECOND  MOVEMENT 

PALE  violin  music  whiffs  across  the  moon, 
A  pale  smoke  of  violin  music  blows  over  the  moon, 
Cherry  petals  fall  and  flutter, 
And  the  white  Pierrot, 
Wreathed  in  the  smoke  of  the  violins, 
Splashed  with  cherry  petals  falling,  falling, 
Claws  a  grave  for  himself  in  the  fresh  earth 
With  his  finger-nails. 

THIRD  MOVEMENT 
AN   organ    growls    in    the    heavy    roof-groins    of    a 

church, 

It  wheezes  and  coughs. 
The  nave  is  blue  with  incense, 
Writhing,  twisting, 
Snaking  over  the  heads  of  the  chanting  priests. 

Requiem  ceternam  dona  ei,  Dominc; 
The  priests  whine  their  bastard  Latin 


346  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

And  the  censers  swing  and  click. 

The  priests  walk  endlessly 

Round  and  round, 

Droning  their  Latin 

Off  the  key. 

The  organ  crashes  out  in  a  flaring  chord, 

And  the  priests  hitch  their  chant  up  half  a  tone. 

Dies  ilia,  dies  irce, 

Calamitatis  et  miseries, 

Dies  magna  et  amara  valde. 
A  wind  rattles  the  leaded  windows. 
The  little  pear-shaped  candle  flames  leap  and  flutter, 

Dies  ilia,  dies  irce; 
The  swaying  smoke  drifts  over  the  altar, 

Calamitatis  et  miseries; 
The  shuffling  priests  sprinkle  holy  water, 

Dies  magna  et  amara  valde; 

And  there  is  a  stark  stillness  in  the  midst  of  them 
Stretched  upon  a  bier. 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS  347 

His  ears  are  stone  to  the  organ, 

His  eyes  are  flint  to  the  candles, 

His  body  is  ice  to  the  water. 

Chant,  priests, 

Whine,  shuffle,  genuflect, 

He  will  always  be  as  rigid  as  he  is  now 

Until  he  crumbles  away  in  a  dust  heap. 

Lacrymosa  dies  ilia, 

Qua  resurget  ex  favilla 

Judicandus  homo  reus. 
Above  the  grey  pillars  the  roof  is  in  darkness. 


348  MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS 


TOWNS  IN  COLOUR 

I 
RED  SLIPPERS 

RED  slippers  in  a  shop-window,  and  outside  in  the 
street,  flaws  of  grey,  windy  sleet ! 

Behind  the  polished  glass,  the  slippers  hang  in  long 
threads  of  red,  festooning  from  the  ceiling  like  sta 
lactites  of  blood,  flooding  the  eyes  of  passers-by  with 
dripping  colour,  jamming  their  crimson  reflections 
against  the  windows  of  cabs  and  tram-cars,  screaming 
their  claret  and  salmon  into  the  teeth  of  the  sleet, 
plopping  their  little  round  maroon  lights  upon  the 
tops  of  umbrellas. 

The  row  of  white,  sparkling  shop  fronts  is  gashed 
and  bleeding,  it  bleeds  red  slippers.  They  spout 
under  the  electric  light,  fluid  and  fluctuating,  a  hot 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  349 

rain  —  and   freeze  again   to  red   slippers,   myriadly 
multiplied  in  the  mirror  side  of  the  window. 

They  balance  upon  arched  insteps  like  springing 
bridges  of  crimson  lacquer;  they  swing  up  over 
curved  heels  like  whirling  tanagers  sucked  in  a  wind- 
pocket;  they  flatten  out,  heelless,  like  July  ponds, 
flared  and  burnished  by  red  rockets. 

Snap,  snap,  they  are  cracker-sparks  of  scarlet  in 
the  white,  monotonous  block  of  shops. 

They  plunge  the  clangour  of  billions  of  vermilion 
trumpets  into  the  crowd  outside,  and  echo  in  faint 
rose  over  the  pavement. 

People  hurry  by,  for  these  are  only  shoes,  and  in  a 
window,  farther  down,  is  a  big  lotus  bud  of  cardboard 
whose  petals  open  every  few  minutes  and  reveal  a 
wax  doll,  with  staring  bead  eyes  and  flaxen  hair, 
lolling  awkwardly  in  its  flower  chair. 


350  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

One  has  often  seen  shoes,  but  whoever  saw  a  card 
board  lotus  bud  before  ? 

The  flaws  of  grey,  windy  sleet  beat  on  the  shop- 
window  where  there  are  only  red  slippers. 


MEX,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  ool 

II 

THOMPSON'S  LUNCH  ROOM  — GRAND 
CENTRAL  STATION 

Study  in  Whites 
WAX-WHITE  — 
Floor,  ceiling,  walls. 
Ivory  shadows 
Over  the  pavement 
Polished  to  cream  surfaces 
By  constant  sweeping. 
The  big  room  is  coloured  like  the  petals 
Of  a  great  magnolia, 
And  has  a  patina 
Of  flower  bloom 
Which  makes  it  shine  dimly 
Under  the  electric  lamps. 
Chairs  are  ranged  in  rows 
Like  sepia  seeds 


352  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

Waiting  fulfilment. 

The  chalk-white  spot  of  a  cook's  cap 

Moves  unglossily  against  the  vaguely  bright  wall  — 

Dull  chalk- white  striking  the  retina  like  a  blow 

Through  the  wavering  uncertainty  of  steam. 

Vitreous- white  of  glasses  with  green  reflections, 

Ice-green  carboys,  shifting  —  greener,  bluer  —  with 

the  jar  of  moving  water. 
Jagged  green-white  bowls  of  pressed  glass 
Rearing  snow-peaks  of  chipped  sugar 
Above  the  lighthouse-shaped  castors 
Of  grey  pepper  and  grey-white  salt. 
Grey- white  placards:   "Oyster  Stew,  Cornbeef  Hash, 

Frankfurters" : 

Marble  slabs  veined  with  words  in  meandering  lines. 
Dropping  on  the  white  counter  like  horn  notes 
Through  a  web  of  violins, 
The  flat  yellow  lights  of  oranges, 
The  cube-red  splashes  of  apples, 


MEN,    WOMEN  AND    GHOSTS  353 

In  high  plated  Spergnes. 

The  electric  clock  jerks  every  half -minute : 

"Coming!  — Past!" 

"Three  beef -steaks  and  a  chicken-pie," 

Bawled  through  a  slide  while  the  clock  jerks  heavily. 

A  man  carries  a  china  mug  of  coffee  to  a  distant  chair. 

Two  rice  puddings  and  a  salmon  salad 

Are  pushed  over  the  counter ; 

The  unfulfilled  chairs  open  to  receive  them. 

A  spoon  falls  upon  the  floor  with  the  impact  of  metal 

striking  stone, 

And  the  sound  throws  across  the  room 
Sharp,  invisible  zigzags 
Of  silver. 


2A 


354  MEN,    WOMEN    AND    GHOSTS 

III 

AN  OPERA  HOUSE 

WITHIN  the  gold  square  of  the  proscenium  arch, 
A  curtain  of  orange  velvet  hangs  in  stiff  folds, 
Its  tassels  jarring  slightly  when  someone  crosses  the 

stage  behind. 

Gold  carving  edges  the  balconies, 
Rims  the  boxes, 

Runs  up  and  down  fluted  pillars. 
Little  knife-stabs  of  gold 
Shine  out  whenever  a  box  door  is  opened. 
Gold  clusters 
Flash  in  soft  explosions 
On  the  blue  darkness, 
Suck  back  to  a  point, 
And  disappear. 
Hoops  of  gold 
Circle  necks,  wrists,  fingers, 


MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS  355 

Pierce  ears, 

Poise  on  heads 

And  fly  up  above  them  in  coloured  sparkles. 

Gold! 

Gold! 

The  opera  house  is  a  treasure-box  of  gold. 

Gold  in  a  broad  smear  across  the  orchestra  pit : 

Gold  of  horns,  trumpets,  tubas  ; 

Gold  —  spun-gold,  twittering-gold,  snapping-gold 

Of  harps. 

The  conductor  raises  his  baton, 

The  brass  blares  out 

Crass,  crude, 

Parvenu,  fat,  powerful, 

Golden. 

Rich  as  the  fat,  clapping  hands  in  the  boxes. 

Cymbals,  gigantic,  coin-shaped, 

Crash. 

The  orange  curtain  parts 


356  MEN,    WOMEN    AND    GHOSTS 

And  the  prima-donna  steps  forward. 

One  note, 

A  drop  :  transparent,  iridescent, 

A  gold  bubble, 

It  floats  .  .  .  floats  .  .  . 

And  bursts  against  the  lips  of  a  bank  president 

In  the  grand  tier. 


MEN,    WOMEN    AND    GHOSTS  357 

IV 
AFTERNOON  RAIN  IN  STATE  STREET 

CROSS-HATCHINGS  of  rain  against  grey  walls, 

Slant  lines  of  black  rain 

In   front  of   the  up  and  down,  wet  stone   sides  of 

buildings. 
Below, 

Greasy,  shiny,  black,  horizontal, 
The  street. 

And  over  it,  umbrellas, 
Black  polished  dots 
Struck  to  white 
An  instant, 

Stream  in  two  flat  lines 

Slipping  past  each  other  with  the  smoothness  of  oil. 
Like  a  four-sided  wedge 
The  Custom  House  Tower 
Pokes  at  the  low,  flat  sky, 


358  MEN,    WOMEN    AND    GHOSTS 

Pushing  it  farther  and  farther  up, 

Lifting  it  away  from  the  house-tops, 

Lifting  it  in  one  piece  as  though  it  were  a  sheet  of  tin, 

With  the  lever  of  its  apex. 

The  cross-hatchings  of  rain  cut  the  Tower  obliquely, 

Scratching  lines  of  black  wire  across  it, 

Mutilating  its  perpendicular  grey  surface 

With  the  sharp  precision  of  tools. 

The  city  is  rigid  with  straight  lines  and  angles, 

A  chequered  table  of  blacks  and  greys. 

Oblong  blocks  of  flatness 

Crawl  by  with  low-geared  engines, 

And  pass  to  short  upright  squares 

Shrinking  with  distance. 

A  steamer  in  the  basin  blows  its  whistle, 

And  the  sound  shoots  across  the  rain  hatchings, 

A  narrow,  level  bar  of  steel. 

Hard  cubes  of  lemon 

Superimpose  themselves  upon  the  fronts  of  buildings 


MEN,    WOMEN    AND    GHOSTS  359 

As  the  windows  light  up. 
But  the  lemon  cubes  are  edged  with  angles 
Upon  which  they  cannot  impinge. 
Up,  straight,  down,  straight  —  square. 
Crumpled  grey-white  papers 
Blow  along  the  side-walks, 
Contorted,  horrible, 
Without  curves. 
A  horse  steps  in  a  puddle, 
And  white,  glaring  water  spurts  up 
In  stiff,  outflaring  lines, 
Like  the  rattling  stems  of  reeds. 
The  city  is  heraldic  with  angles, 
A  sombre  escutcheon  of  argent  and  sable 
And  countercoloured  bends  of  rain 
Hung  over  a  four-square  civilization. 
When  a  street  lamp  comes  out, 
I  gaze  at  it  for  fully  thirty  seconds 
To  rest  my  brain  with  the  suffusing,  round  brilliance 
of  its  globe. 


360  MEN,    WOMEN    AND    GHOSTS 

V 

AN  AQUARIUM 

STREAKS  of  green  and  yellow  iridescence, 
Silver  shiftings, 
Rings  veering  out  of  rings, 
Silver  —  gold  — 

Grey-green  opaqueness  sliding  down, 
With  sharp  white  bubbles 
Shooting  and  dancing, 
Flinging  quickly  outward. 
Nosing  the  bubbles, 
Swallowing  them, 
Fish. 

Blue  shadows  against  silver-saffron  water, 
The  light  rippling  over  them 
In  steel-bright  tremors. 
Outspread  translucent  fins 
Flute,  fold,  and  relapse ; 


MEN,    WOMEN    AND    GHOSTS  361 

The   threaded    light   prints    through    them    on   the 

pebbles 

In  scarcely  tarnished  twinklings. 
Curving  of  spotted  spines, 
Slow  up-shifts, 
Lazy  convolutions : 
Then  a  sudden  swift  straightening 
And  darting  below : 
Oblique  grey  shadows 
Athwart  a  pale  casement. 
Roped  and  curled, 
Green  man-eating  eels 
Slumber  in  undulate  rhythms, 
With  crests  laid  horizontal  on  their  backs. 
Barred  fish, 
Striped  fish, 
Uneven  disks  of  fish, 
Slip,  slide,  whirl,  turn, 
And  never  touch. 


362  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    GHOSTS 

Metallic  blue  fish, 

With  fins  wide  and  yellow  and  swaying 

Like  Oriental  fans, 

Hold  the  sun  in  their  bellies 

And  glow  with  light : 

Blue  brilliance  cut  by  black  bars. 

An  oblong  pane  of  straw-coloured  shimmer, 

Across  it,  in  a  tangent, 

A  smear  of  rose,  black,  silver. 

Short  twists  and  upstartings, 

Rose-black,  in  a  setting  of  bubbles : 

Sunshine  playing  between  red  and  black  flowers 

On  a  blue  and  gold  lawn. 

Shadows  and  polished  surfaces, 

Facets  of  mauve  and  purple, 

A  constant  modulation  of  values. 

Shaft-shaped, 

With  green  bead  eyes ; 

Thick-nosed, 


MEN,    WOMEN    AND    GHOSTS  363 

Heliotrope-coloured ; 

Swift  spots  of  chrysolite  and  coral ; 

In  the  midst  of  green,  pearl,  amethyst  irradiations. 

Outside, 

A  willow -tree  flickers 

With  little  white  jerks, 

And  long  blue  waves 

Rise  steadily  beyond  the  outer  islands. 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America. 


14  DAY   USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROW] 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  c 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


A 


mm  A 


JUN  13  1967 


JUN 


MAR  14  19687 


[JUN  2   & 


.AY  17  1993 


•     Ftti 


etc.  WE. 


(AUG  o  e 


7  197  A 


K.  DEC  1  5  1973 


AUG 


KAY  0  4  1991 


LD  21A-60m-7,'66 
(G4427slO)476B 


General  Library 

University  of  Calif  orni 

Berkeley 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


